


I'm Your Cold Sweat

by nobleyes



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobleyes/pseuds/nobleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie Moriarty invades Joan's dreams and twists them into nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slither

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Joan/Moriarty and I'm not sure where the idea came from but I'm having fun with it! I adore this ship.

Joan Watson is dreaming. Her eyes flicker behind their lids as she chases down a criminal in her mind. No matter how hard she tries to keep up, her legs refuse to cooperate and she finds herself stuck in the New York concrete, watching as the fugitive turns a corner with a laugh. As she pulls on her legs, attempting to free them from their vice, her name is carried to her on a breeze.

 _Joan_.

She ignores the whisper and doesn’t notice the environment change around her. When she finally looks up, she’s no longer on a dark street on the outskirts of the city. Instead, Joan finds herself sitting in a bright room filled with blank canvases. Cans of paint sit unused in the corner, beams of sun reflecting off of the silver containers.

Squinting, she scans the room. The hardwood floor under her is strangely comfortable. The walls are white but peeling, a strange offset to the cleanliness of the room. Standing, she makes her way to the only window, resting her hands on the sill. Outside, it must be early morning, everything blanketed in shades of yellow and glistening with dew.

 _Joan_.

The voice comes from behind her and she whirls around to find a drastically changed area. Every inch of every canvas is covered in bright, violent colors. The walls have succumbed to age, faded and gray. A faint hiss scratches at the back of Joan’s mind, but she ignores it to focus on one painting in particular.

It’s difficult to make out the figure underneath the mess but after examining it for some time, she sees a tall, thin woman with dark hair. The painting shows the woman from behind, so there’s no face for Joan to see. Wanting to get a closer look, she begins to walk towards the canvas.

With each step, Joan feels more and more sluggish. She has to use all of her effort to put one foot in front of the other. Just a few feet from the painting, she looks down to find the hardwood floor covered in snakes. The hissing in the back of her mind finally makes sense. Several are wrapped around each of her legs, slowly winding around and squeezing. Ice cold fear fills Joan’s body as she yells and kicks, trying in vain to rid herself of the beasts.

 _Joan_.

Snapping her attention forward, she finds the painting she had been admiring is now directly in front of her and drastically altered. A beautiful, sharp face now takes up the canvas, staring directly at her. Joan’s eyes are drawn to the red smirk as it opens. She hadn’t noticed the snake traveling up her side but she feels it now as its tongue flicks at her ear. She watches as the woman in the portrait mouths her name at the same time as Jamie Moriarty’s voice comes out of the snake in a hiss.

 _JOAN_.

Joan awakes with a start, hastily pushing the covers down and wiping away the lingering snakes from her dream. Her heart is beating rapidly and the rush of blood in her ears is all she can hear. Her room is completely dark except for the city’s lights flickering behind her curtains. A glance at the clock tells her it’s three in the morning.

Content that her respiration is under control, Joan slips from her bed and quietly walks down the hall to the bathroom. She can hear Sherlock muttering to himself downstairs and the sound gives her a sense of comfort in the aftermath of her mind’s torment. In the bathroom, Joan splashes her face with cold water and tries to shake the images away. Her skin itches with phantom reminders of slimy reptiles, making her shudder.

After a few quiet minutes, she is able to push everything to the back of her mind with the exception of the voice. That soft, sinister whisper of her name that came from the lips of Moriarty. She can feel her body break out in a hot, uncomfortable flush. A mix of fear, curiosity, and disgust swirls in her stomach and for a brief moment she wonders if she will vomit.

Joan closes her eyes and counts to ten, reminding herself that it was all just a strange and unwelcome dream. It wasn’t the first time she had dreamt of the woman – how could she not, with Sherlock so obsessed with Irene - but it was certainly the most personal. She splashes water onto her face once more and keeps her head bowed over the sink, watching droplets fall off her nose and chin.

“Joan.”

The hair on the back of her neck rises and Joan’s head whips up just as a cool hand slides across her mouth. In the reflection of the mirror, her eyes find those of Moriarty’s, narrowed and glistening. Joan feels another hand place a firm grip on her hip. Normally, every instinct in her body would be screaming to fight. Since they’re not, Joan knows she’s simply dreaming again.

She watches warily as the hand on her hip moves and splays out across her stomach. Moriarty removes her hand from Joan’s mouth and trails her fingers down her cheek slowly.

“You’ve been dreaming of me, Joanie,” she whispers and her voice instantly brings goosebumps to Joan’s skin. “I watched you. You woke up gasping my name.” Moriarty tilts her head down and places her mouth on Joan’s neck, too feather-light to count as a kiss.

Joan swallows hard and turns to face her, surprised at how easily Moriarty lets it happen. She lets go of Joan completely and simply raises an eyebrow. Joan’s eyes quickly dart around the bathroom, anticipating the snakes to come any second now. Moriarty follows her gaze and interprets it incorrectly.

“Sherlock’s far too busy to hear us.”

Joan shakes her head, “No I’m waiting for the snakes.”

Moriarty raises both eyebrows now. “I wasn’t aware the two of you kept any.”

“We don’t,” Joan answers and her brow furrows as everything suddenly seems too close, too real. “I’m awake?”

The smirk she had seen on the canvas in her dream now graces Moriarty’s face in front of her. She reaches out to cup Joan’s cheek and appears unaffected when Joan jerks away. “Of course you’re awake. Haven’t you heard me?” Moriarty absently tucks her hair behind her ear and almost pouts. “I’ve been calling you for ages. Trying to rouse you from that dreadful nightmare.”

Joan’s mind releases every bit of information from her dream at once. She remembers how softly she had heard her name at first and then how loud and close it had been at the end. “You – you’ve been here.” It’s not a question.

Moriarty watches her with a small smile, neither conforming nor denying the statement.

At the lack of horror she feels, Joan recalls their meeting at the restaurant shortly after Moriarty had revealed herself.

_“You’re not afraid of me.”_

_“Too angry to be afraid.”_

Joan feels anger again now. Anger at the intrusion of her home, her room, her mind. “You need to leave,” she hisses and images of snakes flash before her eyes.

Moriarty purses her lips and steps closer to Joan, completely eliminating any personal space between them. “You shouldn’t have to try so hard, you know.”

“To do what?” Joan means to sound demanding but knows it comes out all wrong, her genuine curiosity and interest apparent.

Moriarty leans forward until their foreheads are almost touching. “To hate me,” she whispers before catching Joan’s bottom lip between her teeth lightly. Too stunned to move, Joan has no time to react before Moriarty pulls away and presses a cloth across Joan’s nose and mouth.

Feeling oddly betrayed when the scent hits her, Joan’s eyes widen and she struggles against Moriarty, who only watches with interest. Every move of self-defense Sherlock has ever taught her is suddenly forgotten as her vision begins to narrow and focus on the face inches from hers.

“Sweet dreams, Joan,” Moriarty’s voice sounds thick and far away as Joan’s body sags and her mind slips back into darkness. She falls farther and farther, through bright splashes of reds and oranges, purples and blues. She reaches out for something, for anything, and finds nothing. There is only quiet. Quiet so loud it's deafening, ringing through her ears and forming her name over and over.

_Watson._

_Watson.  
_

_Watson.  
_

“Get up, Watson! Captain Gregson needs to see us as soon as possible.” Sherlock’s voice seems far too loud and Joan groans as she opens her eyes to bright sunlight.

“What time is it?” She asks, pulling the covers up over her head. A migraine is slowly making itself known and she groans again.

“Half past seven. Now come on, or shall I pick your outfit for you?”

Joan waves Sherlock away with the promise that she’s getting up. Once he’s left, she slowly pulls herself into sitting position and rubs her eyes, feeling as though she has barely slept.

As she’s pulling on her tights, images of snakes and paintings come forth in her mind. She vaguely recalls Moriarty and a sense of terror which makes her pause. She shakes her head, knowing it was all a twisted nightmare as she woke up safe in her bed.

While walking out of her room to join Sherlock downstairs, something catches Joan’s eye. She turns and leans down to inspect the floor in front of her door. She has to move her head back and forth before the sun catches the object again. When she sees it, her heart drops into her stomach. Unmistakably, there lies a long, wavy piece of blonde hair that can only belong to one person.

 


	2. Shiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan tries to piece together what happened and accepts an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Kelly for the beta and brainstorming with me when I got stuck!

“What is it, Watson?”

Sherlock and Joan sit in a coffee shop, eyes glued to the building across the street for a sign of their suspect. Joan jumps a little at Sherlock’s voice, realizing she’s been staring blankly with her thoughts obviously elsewhere.

“Hm? Oh it’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.” She sips her coffee and leans back in her chair, rubbing her temple to will away the migraine she woke up with.

Sherlock’s gaze never strays from the building but he nods and shifts in his seat. Joan watches him as his eyes scan across the building, fingers tapping absentmindedly on their wooden table. She crosses her legs and picks a stray piece of lint off her gray skirt.

Immediately, she is reminded of the blonde hair found on her bedroom floor. A sure sign that Moriarty had in fact been there in the middle of the night. Joan stares into her coffee as she tries to piece together what was real and what was manufactured by her dream.

She knows she could ask Sherlock if he heard anything since she had caught him talking to himself downstairs. Hadn’t she? Yes, definitely. Right before she went into the bathroom and was found by Moriarty.

Joan shudders at the memory. The woman’s hands had been so cold. Or was it just that Joan was burning up? She had been told in the past that she was a rather active sleeper, always rolling over and pushing pillows around. She _did_ wake up sweating…

“Are you ill?” Sherlock brings her out of her thoughts once more.

“Sorry?”

He finally tears his eyes away, looking at her across the table. “It’s nearly summer and you’re _shivering_. Can’t imagine it’s because of this weather.” Sherlock looks pointedly at the sky, all bright blue and white-hot.

Joan’s immediate thought is to deny it but she quickly sees an opportunity to get some time to think without Sherlock’s prying. “Maybe,” she muses, running a hand up and down her bare arm. “I think I’ll take a trip to Chinatown and pick up some more herbs for tea.”

She’s sure Sherlock will know it’s a lie but she also knows that he has learned to spot and understand her need for space. This way, she can ask without giving him the true reason for it, which would be that Moriarty broke into their home and drugged her in the middle of the night.

He continues to look at her for a moment with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Joan stares back, determined to appear confident and not in need of any help. Finally, Sherlock gives her a short nod and stands up.

“Right! You do that and I’ll go check in with Gregson. We obviously received bad information or we would have seen something by now.” He scowls at the building they had been staking out and pulls out his phone. “I’ll see you at Brownstone, Watson.”

“See you,” Joan gives him a small smile and watches him walk away. She knows she’ll have to tell him eventually but this will at least give her a chance to sort things out first.

She throws away the rest of her coffee and makes her way to the nearest park. As she strolls along the crowded New York sidewalks, she replays the night before in her mind.

It had been around three in the morning when she woke up the first time. She vividly remembers the lingering fear of snakes curled around her legs. Then there was that damned whispering. This is where confusion begins to circle around Joan, pulling her in every direction until she isn’t sure what’s real and what’s not. Had she only heard the voice in her dream? She remembers something Moriarty had said in the bathroom.

_“Haven’t you heard me? I’ve been calling you for ages.”_

The possibility of Moriarty slinking in the shadows of Joan’s room and whispering her name seems to be the most likely scenario. It’s a common occurrence, having outside sounds seep into your dreams. Joan tries not to imagine the blonde woman sidling up to her bed in the dark and hissing into her ear. Of course then that’s all she can actually think about.

Once she reaches the park, Joan finds an empty bench and flops down onto it, sighing heavily. The sound of children laughing and birds chirping surrounds her. She closes her eyes and concentrates on taking several deep breaths of the warm air, thick with the scent of blossoming flowers.

Joan feels as though her brain is covered in a dense fog and slow to respond. She grasps for memories and in return gets flashes of color, sparks of yellow and red. Every image comes attached with a sense of dread and something else that Joan can’t quite put her finger on.

Lolling her head back against the bench, she doesn’t see the man approaching her until his body blocks out the sun and covers her in shadow. Joan cracks one eye open and takes in the tall, muscular form in front of her. He’s annoyingly pristine in his fitted suit, designer shoes, and dark sunglasses. Joan decides he’s a douchebag before he says a word.

“Excuse me,” she says, more agitated than usual. When he doesn’t move and continues to stare at her, she sits up and crosses her arms. “Can I help you?”

The man reaches into his left pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. Joan eyes him warily as he takes his time unfolding it before handing it to her.

 

_‘I hear you’re not feeling your best, Joan Watson. What a shame. Sherlock will have to solve today’s crime without your help. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll manage. Do meet me Thursday at the following location, would you? 10 o'clock. Oh and get some rest. You look exhausted.’_

 

Joan glances at the address before fixing her eyes on the signature at the bottom of the page. She laughs humorlessly and folds the letter up, placing it in her bag. The messenger is gone by the time she looks up and she finds that she doesn’t care.

Joan watches a few kids chase each other around as she contemplates the letter. Obviously Moriarty has eyes and ears everywhere. They report every detail back to her, no matter how minute it may seem. Joan imagines clones of the man she had seen, cramped in a stuffy van as they stare at her through binoculars.

‘She’s not looking well today, boss,’ they would call her up and say before snapping a photo and sending it her way.

A strong breeze has Joan pushing her hair out of her face as she leans back once more. For a moment, she contemplates telling Sherlock but the thought is short-lived. Whatever Moriarty wants, it seems to only involve Joan. She knows she’s capable of handling it on her own.

Then there’s the part of Joan that is quietly banging on her skull, demanding to be recognized. A small buzz of excitement at the whole situation. A cry for more danger, more of this powerful woman playing games with her.

Joan steadfastly ignores this part of her brain as she hails a cab to Chinatown.

 

* * *

 

 

When she arrives home a little over an hour later, Sherlock is in the sitting room, poring over photographs of the morning’s crime scene. He looks her over and nods his hello as she passes on her way to the kitchen.

Joan goes through her quiet routine of making the herbal tea. It gives her a sense of normalcy that she is grateful for and she finds herself humming quietly, suddenly in a much better mood. When she hears Sherlock enter the room, she turns to him with her eyebrows raised.

“Hey, how’d it go with Gregson? Where are we at?”

Sherlock swings his arms at his side as he responds, “Excellent. It was quite easy, really. The witness that supplied us with the address of that building today? Mistress of the suspect,” he sets the folder of evidence on the table with a thud. “The rest of it fell into place obviously. They’ll be making an arrest within the hour.”

Joan leans against the counter with a smile. “Good. That’s good,” she says, cradling her mug to her chest and enjoying the warmth.

Sherlock looks as though he wants to say more but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. There’s a brief pause of hesitation before he speaks up. “Make sure you drink plenty of that. I’ll need you at your best for our next case.” With that, he saunters out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Joan chews her lip thoughtfully and hopes that she’ll be more levelheaded by the time the NYPD will need their help again.

 

That night, after a very long and very hot shower, Joan curls up in bed with a book. Blanket snug around her, glasses on and dim light filling the room, she begins to read. Three pages in, a sound grabs her attention. Immediately, she closes her book and switches off her light. Sherlock was asleep by the time she was out of the shower so she knows it isn’t him. He’s always exhausted after cases and will sleep without much movement at all for a good twelve hours.

Moriarty? Joan swallows thickly and stays as still as possible, heart pounding in her chest. Small shadows form on her wall, miscellaneous things from outside her window and nothing out of the ordinary.

She thinks of what to do if Moriarty is indeed in her home again. Certainly she can’t be allowed to get close enough to drug Joan again. Her body makes the decision to get out of bed before her brain can catch up. Quietly, she tiptoes across the room to her door and presses her ear to it. Joan breathes as slowly as possible, trying to make little to no noise.

Much to her annoyance, the door creaks as she opens it and peers out into the hallway. Nothing seems out of place. At least not yet. One step at a time and with wide eyes, Joan makes her way through the Brownstone, checking every room. While downstairs, she imagines Moriarty has sneaked around her somehow and is hiding by her bed.

Body thrumming with adrenaline, Joan shuffles back up the stairs and pauses outside her room, licking her lips. If Moriarty is in there, she’ll have to use some method of self-defense. Which one exactly, she isn’t sure. She takes a deep breath and barges into her room, quickly scanning every corner.

There’s nothing there.

Joan swallows down her slight disappointment and mentally chides herself for feeling that way. She should be delighted that she and Sherlock are the only people inside, as it should be. With a shake of her head, she crawls into bed and finally allows herself to fall asleep.

 

Before Joan knows it, it’s Wednesday. A rather uneventful Wednesday at that. Sherlock looks through cold cases while she busies herself cleaning up his messes. Normally she would yell at him to do it but it provides a nice distraction for the time being.

They order pizza for dinner and Sherlock quizzes her on handwriting forgery as they eat. Afterwards, he heads to the roof to spend some quality time with his bees and Joan sifts through her closet for something to wear the next day.

“This is stupid,” she mutters to herself after rejecting a third top. She wants to give a strong impression when meeting with Moriarty. Nothing too pretty or innocent will do. Eventually, she settles on slim black jeans and a burgundy silk blouse. After finding her favorite Vince Camuto booties (anything to appear taller next to Moriarty), she lays the outfit out and nods at it approvingly.

 

On Thursday morning, Joan bounds down the stairs in her jogging clothes, positively buzzing with energy. Sherlock is lying belly-first on the floor and seemingly in a staring contest with Clyde. Joan slides her iPod into her pocket and pulls on her shoes.

“I’ll be back later. Don’t forget to eat something,” she remarks, lifting up her duffel bag full of clothes. If Sherlock saw her leaving this early for anything other than a jog or meeting someone for coffee, he’d certainly be suspicious.

Sherlock waves distractedly and mutters something that might be a goodbye.

Outside, it’s a beautiful sunny day. Puffy white clouds are sparse in the sky and the air is warm and dry. Joan inhales deeply and finds herself smiling. She feels refreshed and in control, her head much clearer than it was a few days ago.

After stopping at a gym to change, Joan hails a cab and gives him the address from Moriarty’s letter. She isn’t sure what she’s expecting, maybe a restaurant like before, but she’s shocked when she steps out onto the sidewalk and finds herself at a museum.

A sense of curiosity fills her as she takes in the building. Of course it would be a museum. Moriarty is nothing if not a brilliant painter. This is what she knows and Joan is stepping onto her turf. She straightens her back and squares her shoulders, bracing herself for whatever waits for her inside.


	3. Observe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan grills Moriarty for answers and realizes some surprising things about herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have been possible without Kelly! For all of her art history expertise and beta!

Stepping inside the Great Hall of The Metropolitan Museum of Art is like stepping into another world for Joan. She pauses just inside the doorway and takes a moment to look around, marveling at the architecture and beauty of the place. People breeze by her, chatting excitedly and heading off in different directions. 

“Joan!” The voice calling is unmistakable and she looks to her left to find Moriarty standing a few feet away with her trademark smug smile. Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, stray strands framing her face in a way that makes her look almost delicate. A short-sleeved black dress hugs her body and ends right above her knees, showing off her long legs. Joan glances down at her own heels and is glad she chose them, as they allow her to be almost level with the woman.

As the blonde moves towards her, Joan notices two men in suits trailing behind. Obviously her security. She eyes them warily and Moriarty turns once she reaches her, laughing quietly.

“Don’t mind them,” she smiles and takes her time drinking in Joan’s appearance. “I’m so glad you decided to show.”

Joan almost rolls her eyes but settles on cocking her head and crossing her arms. “Did I have a choice?” She figures that if she hadn’t gotten to the museum herself, someone would have been sent to ‘retrieve’ her.

Amusement flickers on Moriarty’s face before she nods and begins to walk towards the welcome desk. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to, Joan.” 

She finds that hard to believe but she follows the woman anyway, watching as she pays for both of them. Moriarty looks at her with what may be surprise.

“I expected you to protest,” she tells Joan as she leads her around the desk and towards a staircase. 

“It really is the least you could do,” Joan murmurs in response. Then, “What the hell were you doing in my house?”

“Jumping right into that, are we?” Moriarty glances at her with a smile that Joan wants to smack off her face. “I only wanted to see you. Had I known it was so easy to get you out of there, I would have asked you here sooner.”

Joan scoffs. “I’m only here because I want answers.”

“You’ll get them,” Moriarty responds and signals something behind her back as they climb the first set of stairs. “What do you want to know?” 

Joan turns around briefly to see the security team waiting on the first floor. She narrows her eyes at the other woman and tucks her hair behind her ears. “You wanted to see me. Why?”

She doesn’t get an answer until they reach a landing and Moriarty gently pulls her to the side to let people pass. “I find you fascinating, Joan,” she begins. “There is so much more than meets the eye with you.” As she speaks, her sharp blue gaze roves over Joan’s body. 

Joan shifts closer to the wall as a crowd makes its way up the stairs. “That’s no excuse to break into my house.”

Moriarty simply shrugs and follows after the crowd. “Would you have agreed to see me otherwise?”

Joan thinks on this for a moment even though she knows her answer is no. If the woman had come out of the blue simply asking for the pleasure of her company, she would have denied it. 

“I didn’t think so,” Moriarty leans in and whispers with a small smile.

The two of them reach the second floor and Joan takes a moment to marvel at the large canvas in front of her. She doesn’t know much about art and doesn’t pretend to. Instead, she lets her eyes scan the piece as her mind comes up with more questions.

Turning, she finds Moriarty staring at the same painting, head tilted ever so slightly to the left. Sensing Joan watching her, she raises her eyebrows and gestures to a doorway on their right. “Shall we?”

Joan nods and they walk slowly together, staying out of the way of people who are crowding around to look at the art. There are fewer people in the next room. Those who are present are absorbed in their Met audio tours or buried in sketchbooks, much to Joan’s relief. She can think easier this way. She stands in the middle of the room and watches as Moriarty walks around the edges, hands clasped behind her back. Joan senses that she is only waiting for her to continue her interrogation.

“You drugged me,” Joan states, remembering the scene in the bathroom a few nights earlier. It was one thing if Moriarty wanted to see her but this was something else entirely. “Why?”

The taller woman stops walking and stares at a painting for a moment before pivoting on her heel and sauntering towards Joan. “I thought it rather obvious,” she pouts.

“What?” Joan asks, crossing her arms. “Were you worried I’d go running to Sherlock?”

At this, Moriarty throws her head back with a laugh. “Absolutely not!” her eyes light up with amusement at the possibility. “I could have handled that immediately. No, I’m afraid it was nothing so dull.” 

Confused and annoyed at being laughed at, Joan looks away and stares at a blank spot on the wall. “Why then?”

“How did I get into your home?”

“I have no idea, which frankly should have been my first question.” 

Moriarty smirks and lifts her chin, “Precisely. I couldn’t have you knowing my way in and out. Drugging you was the only option.”

Joan muses on this for a moment as she follows Moriarty into the next room. “You could have just handcuffed me or something.”

The blonde sends her a look over her shoulder. “Into that, are you? I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

Joan flushes and bites her tongue as a family with small children passes by them. “So you used chloroform on me just so I wouldn’t find out how you broke in?”

“Yes,” Moriarty confirms, brushing a piece of hair off the front of her dress. It reminds Joan of the one she found in her bedroom. “Any more questions?”

“Yeah, what do you want?”

A few minutes pass before she gets a response. They enter a busy room and Moriarty calmly sits down on a bench and gestures for Joan to join her. Once they’re both seated, she speaks.

“As I told you, I find you fascinating and I want to know more about you. I like the challenge it presents.” Her eyes shine as she talks, as if this is the most interesting conversation in the world. “You’re like a strong little surprise package that the world has left for me, Joan. I intend to unwrap you piece by piece until I know you inside and out.”

Joan ignores the shiver she gets hearing these words. Moriarty stares into her eyes and Joan can tell by the look on her face that she’s entirely serious. She looks away from the intense gaze and clears her throat. 

“Is this to get at Sherlock?” she asks.

Joan expects to get another laugh but when Moriarty is silent, she focuses her attention on her once more. 

“No,” the blonde states slowly, face hardening. “This is all you, Joan. I simply want to know you. Learn everything about you. You’re extraordinary and I must figure you out.” 

It’s Joan’s turn to laugh and she stands from the bench to pace. “You’re ridiculous. What makes you think I’m going to allow that? You don’t get to know me,” she hisses.

Moriarty watches her with interest and licks her lips. “As I said before, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” She gets up and moves close to Joan, fixing her with a hard stare. “Though it will make my life a lot easier if you do.”

Joan stops pacing and returns the stare, refusing to back down. “How about when you’re done learning? I suppose you’d get bored and kill me after that.”

Moriarty looks unimpressed by the accusation. “I would never destroy a work of art such as yourself. I will study you and learn your secrets and tricks. I have a feeling one could spend a lifetime figuring you out, Joan Watson.”

At this, Joan blinks and finds she isn’t sure how to respond. There’s a hint of sincerity to Moriarty’s voice that she isn’t sure how to interpret. Noticing that she has rendered Joan speechless, the blonde relaxes her expression and jerks her thumb in the direction of another doorway. 

They walk in silence for a moment before Moriarty speaks again. “I would like to suggest an… arrangement for us.”

Joan thinks it can’t possibly be anything good but unabashed curiosity has her asking what it is before she can stop herself. 

“Meet with me regularly,” Moriarty begins as they turn left into a new room. “We can start monthly. Anywhere you would like.”

Joan ponders this for a second before asking, “What for?”

Moriarty sighs. “I grow tired of repeating myself, Joan. For me to get to know you. We could,” she pauses and smiles, “get to know each other.”

“Why would I want to do that?” 

Moriarty frowns and seems to consider the question. “In return, I will give you protection.”

Joan rolls her eyes. “I don’t need your protection.”

“Of course you don’t,” Moriarty stops walking and watches Joan look around the room. “I will also aid Sherlock – and you – in any of your cases that you may require assistance with.” 

Suspicious, Joan furrows her brow and shifts her weight where she stands. “Why would you do that?” An extremely powerful criminal claiming to help solve homicides doesn’t sound right to her. 

Moriarty admires a display in the middle of the room and shrugs. “It would be my pleasure to help in return for your companionship.”

Joan turns her back on her and scans the paintings on the blue wall. One in particular catches her eye and she moves closer to it. It’s of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Adam appears to be pleading with God as Eve wipes away a tear. As Joan scans Eve’s body, her attention is brought to a snake on the left-hand side. 

Memories of her dream come flooding back and she shifts uncomfortably. Looking down at her legs, she wills away the hissing in her mind and turns from the art piece to find Moriarty standing right behind her. 

“Natiore’s Expulsion from Paradise,” she states, looking over Joan’s shoulder at the painting. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Joan takes a step away from her and hums noncommittally. The blonde takes a step closer to the piece and seems to take in every detail, eyes scanning rapidly. Joan notices how her face lights up and watches as her mouth moves slightly, almost as if she is quietly talking to herself.

Leaning back, Moriarty clicks her teeth and rubs her chin in thought. “Eve, Eve, Eve,” she sighs. “I understand her predicament.”

Joan raises her eyebrows and looks at her in disbelief. “On what level could you understand that?”

The taller woman leans closer to the painting and licks her lips. “She was tempted with something beautiful and delicious. A new experience.” A slender finger gestures to the snake, “He was very clever, giving her something she couldn’t possibly refuse.”

“She could have,” Joan argues.

“No,” Moriarty shakes her head minutely and narrows her eyes at the work of art. “You think you have everything you could possibly ask for. Everything you have ever wanted is at your fingertips.” She pauses and glances at Joan. “Then you are presented with something that is so small and unassuming yet promises to bring you new knowledge.” She runs a finger over her mouth and looks away.

Joan processes this information. In Moriarty’s mind, Joan is the apple with which she has been tempted. Yet in Joan’s mind, it is Moriarty. It is something she hasn’t wanted to admit to herself and yet standing before the painting, it’s clear as day.

Every instinct in her body tells her to get away from the woman and yet she finds herself wanting to get closer. The air of danger that hangs to the criminal like a cloak is intoxicating to Joan. She would never admit it but she loves the buzz it fills her with. She’s walking on a thin line just allowing the woman this close to her and yet she wants to get closer. 

For the first time, Joan stops seeing Moriarty as the snake from her nightmare. It now only represents Joan’s own traitorous body. Her taste for dangerous circumstances and people. It represents the women being brought into each other’s orbit and neither being able to pull away. They’re both too hungry, one for the knowledge and the other for the adrenaline. 

Unsure of how she feels with this new revelation, Joan looks up to find Moriarty staring at her with something she can’t put her finger on. They stay locked in a gaze as a small throng of people enters the room and moves all around them. Finally, Moriarty gives her a gentle smile and pulls on her arm. 

“Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

Wordlessly, Joan follows. A few turns later, they enter a new gallery and Moriarty makes a beeline to one wall. She stops at a painting, hand resting on her hip as she admires it. 

“This is a portrait of a young woman by Anthony van Dyck,” she tells Joan once she catches up. “It’s a study, something to be used in a later painting or for practice. Look at the way she’s extended her throat, and the depth of the shadows around her chin. He has a command of the brush like very few painters do. There’s an understanding of the subject and her plight that transcends a simple portrait. This is one of my favorites.”

Joan examines the portrait and imagines Moriarty sitting at home, surrounded by canvases. Every work of art in the room becomes a piece in Joan’s imagination, all crafted with skillful hands. Her thoughts wander as she stares at Moriarty, not really hearing what she is saying as Joan is too caught up watching. 

It’s always a beautiful thing to witness someone speak of something they’re passionate about. Joan sees it now as the blonde woman’s face positively glows with energy, eyes alight with a fire and hands gesturing smoothly. Seeing her like this, you would never guess she was a criminal mastermind. A warm feeling spreads through Joan’s chest; something akin to admiration.

“I adore northern European artwork,” Moriarty brings her out of her thoughts as she laughs gleefully. They move throughout the room, taking time to look at every piece. 

“Have you restored anything like this?” Joan inquires. 

A genuine smile appears on Moriarty’s face. “Oh yes. From these very artists, in fact. Rubens and van Dyck. The two worked together for a time in Antwerp, and there’s some controversy concerning a few of their pieces.”

Joan scans the room curiously. “These are all by two people?” She finds that many of the paintings look alike.

Moriarty nods, strands of blonde hair gliding along soft cheekbones. “They have very similar techniques – Rubens actually taught van Dyck, for a time. In some pieces it’s not immediately clear who was the artist. When historical records are lacking, oftentimes attributions need to be made on the basis of style. Many people – some so-called experts – have a hard time telling the difference.”

Joan detects a hint of smugness at the end of that statement and finds herself smiling slightly. “Can you tell the difference?”

Blue eyes meet hers and Moriarty smirks. “I can,” she nods. “It’s all in the fingers.” She waves hers in front of her face and guides Joan to a painting on the other side of the room. “This is by Rubens; a self-portrait of him and his family. Note the hands.”

Joan leans in and examines the hands of the three people in the painting. “Okay,” she drawls, unsure of what she’s supposed to be seeing. She follows as Moriarty stands in front of a different canvas.

“This is van Dyck. See how much longer the fingers are? Slender and more regal.” 

Joan’s brow raises as she does spot the difference. The woman in the painting has one hand on a child’s leg and it looks infinitely more delicate than the woman’s in the other work. 

“I do see it,” Joan remarks in fascination, a smile forming on her face. She feels as if she’s just been told a great secret. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she finds herself blushing when she catches Moriarty looking at her in amusement. “That’s,” she clears her throat, “interesting. It’s really interesting.”

The woman hums contentedly and loops her arm through Joan’s, much to her surprise. She finds that she doesn’t pull away and allows herself to be guided through more galleries. She listens as Moriarty prattles on about different artists and techniques. Joan watches her in wonder, feeling the energy radiating off the blonde and onto her. She feels excited and alive, much like how she feels when solving cases with Sherlock.

She isn’t sure how much time has passed once they descend the stairs to the first floor. Joan feels a small spark of disappointment as Moriarty signals to her security and they all walk out the front door. The men head off, probably to retrieve the car, and Moriarty glances at Joan curiously. 

“About my proposal,” she begins, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as it appears from behind a cloud.

“Yes,” Joan responds almost immediately and ignores the voice in her head that chides her for it.

Moriarty’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Yes?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’ll do it,” Joan stutters a bit and looks down at her feet, feeling like an embarrassed child. She glances around at the people surrounding them and has a fleeting thought that Moriarty could have them all dead in an instant if she only said the word. Her heart rate picks up at this and she exhales noisily as though she can expel the adrenaline from her body through her breath alone.

“Excellent,” the taller woman smirks. “Walk with me.”

“I can just take a cab, it’s not-“

Moriarty lifts a hand to silence her. “Just to my car.”

Joan agrees and they walk down the many steps to the street. Within a few seconds, a sleek black car pulls up in front of the museum. Joan hangs back as Moriarty opens the back door and reaches inside, fumbling around with something. 

She reemerges with a small white card in her hand. “Here,” she passes it to Joan and slides into the backseat. “My email. I’ll wait to hear from you with a location. Anywhere you’d like.”

“Email? Couldn’t I just text you?” She remembers the several times that she and Sherlock received texts from a contact in the form of a question mark.

“You could,” Moriarty tilts her head and crosses her legs, “though I prefer to use that phone for business.”

Joan eyes the card and slips it into the pocket of her pants. She has the idea that the woman could send her an email without even knowing the address but Joan appreciates that she’s letting her take the initiative. 

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ll let you know.” 

“Looking forward to it.” Moriarty slips on a pair of dark sunglasses and gives Joan a small wave. “Until next time, Joan Watson.” The door is shut and the car is heading down the road before Joan has a chance to formulate a response.

Has she really just agreed to meet with this criminal again? Running a hand over her face, Joan clutches onto the remnants of excitement coursing through her veins. She laughs despite herself and waves for a taxi to take her home.


	4. Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another dream and another meeting. Or, Joan Gets Lonely and Turns to a Criminal for Attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY for the long wait! I made this chapter a little longer to make up for it :) I also went ahead and changed the rating since there WILL be sexy times in the future. Not this chapter, but soon. As always, thank you to Kelly for the beta.

Joan dreams that she’s a fly. Her fragile legs are trapped in a sticky web and she twists and turns in feeble attempts to free herself. There are several other flies there with her, stuck and struggling, calling out for help. The long strands of silk begin to tremble with signs of an incoming predator walking along the tightropes. Of course, the spider has come home.

Joan holds her breath as the creature stalks forward and begins to take a circle around its web, plucking up victims along the way. She listens to their screams, the tearing of their wings, and the weakening sighs as their bodies are drained of all life. One by one, the spider feasts on its prey and Joan finds herself counting down until it will reach her in the center. In three, two, and one.

Eight long legs appear in front of her and she squeezes her eyes shut, awaiting the inevitable pain. When nothing happens, she peeks one eye open to find the spider sitting calmly before her, blinking at her with several eyes. The air is damp and thick with a sense of dread and all Joan can think is that her death will be prolonged with hours of torture ahead of her.

“My dear Watson,” the spider croons, voice sickly sweet, and suddenly Joan is dizzy. The accent, the soft whisper, even in this form she can recognize the criminal that dances around her, legs moving so fast Joan can’t keep up.

“Moriarty,” Joan chokes on the word, fear and anger mixing through her body. Impossibly, the spider smiles and it’s cold and wicked and wrong.

“Do you like what I’ve done for you?”

“What have you done?” Joan feels strange all over as if she’s being pulled in several different directions at once. A wave of nausea crashes over her yet her stomach feels hollow, a growl signifying her hunger.

“Why this of course,” the spider laughs quietly, sending shivers down Joan’s spine. Backing away from Joan, it gestures around her. “I killed them for you.”

Anger wins over Joan’s emotions, burning like red hot coals in her chest. “I didn’t want that,” she seethes.

“Joan,” the spider tilts its head, leaning close until Joan can see her reflection in one glassy eye. The sight horrifies her as she finds that she’s mutated, a disgusting cross of insect and arachnid. Pains rack her body as furry legs sprout and her wings fold beneath her new skin.

Between gasps, Joan catches a new scent in the air that has her salivating. She is reminded of the empty pit in her stomach, the painful hunger that gnaws at her.

“This is what you need, Joan,” the spider’s voice has changed to something airy and delicate. It falls like a caress on Joan’s body and she wants to wrap up in the sound waves and fall asleep. “I’ll give you what you need. Take a look.”

Joan finds that she’s no longer held hostage by the web and she turns to examine her surroundings. Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes land on bodies – human bodies. They lie pale and mangled with their eyes open in a vacant stare. Joan swallows thickly, slowly turning in a circle as she takes in the terrible sight. When she completes her turn, she’s surprised to find that Moriarty stands naked before her, a golden light emanating from her very being. She appears as she does in the waking world: tall, blonde, and beautiful. The only thing that’s off is the gentle smile on her red lips as she closes the space between them.

“You follow my lead, Joan,” she murmurs, cupping Joan’s cheek. Joan doesn’t have to look down to know that she has also transformed into her true self. She can feel the humid air on her bare skin, her hair standing up on end, and the magnetic pull of Moriarty’s body so close to hers.

Joan closes her eyes and tries to imagine somewhere safe and warm. Still, the woman’s hand burns hot on her cheek and she is pulled back to the web and surrounding death. Moriarty’s words from before hang in the air.

_‘Do you like what I’ve done for you?’_

_‘I killed them for you.’_

_‘…for you.’_

“For me,” Joan says as she opens her eyes, boldly taking on Moriarty’s icy blue stare.

“For you,” Moriarty confirms with a bright smile. The joy she gets from killing radiates off her and Joan is enveloped in it. She laps at it and gulps it down, filling the hollow ache in her stomach. Moriarty laughs and laughs as Joan groans, light-headed with the sensation. She clings to the blonde, inhaling the scent of blood and adrenaline and feeding off it.

“More,” Joan rasps, drunk with the feeling of power.

“More,” Moriarty parrots, clasping Joan’s face with both hands. “More,” she repeats as one hand moves to tangle in black hair and the other cradles Joan’s jaw. “More,” she whispers one last time before twisting her hands and snapping Joan’s neck.

 

* * *

 

It’s been three weeks since the museum and Joan has barely thought of Moriarty until now. By barely, it means that the woman crossed her mind three or four times a day. Maybe an hour. Now the dream from the night before runs through her mind and it's all she can think of, filling her with unease.

Sitting at her computer, Joan opens up her email and begins to type. She states a time and place for Moriarty to meet her and then quickly hits send before she can change her mind. She has a little over four hours before she’ll have to leave.

“Find anything?” Sherlock asks as he enters the room, eyes on a piece of paper in his hands. His hair is sticking up, he hasn’t changed in two days, and as he breezes by Joan, she notes that he’s beginning to smell. Bad.

“Uh,” she quickly clicks on the security footage she was meant to be looking at. “No, nothing yet.”

Sherlock mutters something under his breath and scratches his head. Joan makes a face and tries to think of some way to get him to take a break. The case they’re working on has been slow for days. With Detective Bell, they had followed several leads that were all dead ends. It has Sherlock in a mood, sulking around the brownstone for hours on end.

“Sherlock,” Joan makes her way to him and gently pulls the paper out of his hands. He looks at her with a scowl but she focuses on his red-rimmed eyes. “You need to sleep.”

“Need?” He seethes, hands curling into fists at his side. “What I _need_ , Watson, is to solve this case.” He stomps into the next room but Joan follows on his heels.

“Well solve it in the shower at least.”

Sherlock whips around to glare daggers at her and Joan raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms. It’s one thing to put up with an irritated genius man-child but one that smells? No thank you.

He opens his mouth to make a retort but pauses, leaning in to whisper diabolically. “Am I rancid?”

“Quite,” Joan responds, taking a step back. “The NYPD won’t take you along to arrest suspects if you smell like that.”

“Very well,” Sherlock lifts his chin in an attempt to look dignified. “As long as I’ll be thinking, I may as well take a hot bath.”

Joan fights the urge to smile at the thought as she waves him off. “There you go. I’ll knock if I hear from anyone.”

Once Sherlock has climbed the stairs and she hears the bathroom door shut, Joan hurries back to her computer. Before minimizing it, she makes a promise to herself to look at the security footage later in the evening. Opening her email, she finds the reply she was hoping for.

_‘Very well. See you then_. _’_

There it is again. The small tendrils of excitement crawling through her veins. She’s genuinely looking forward to seeing the woman once more. Like an addict, she craves being in Moriarty’s company. Joan had experienced a new side of her at the museum. A transformation took place, if you will. The blonde had shed her criminal skin to show Joan her passion for beautiful things that don't involve murder.

Joan no longer feels anger towards Moriarty for breaking into her home. While she doesn’t buy the answer that Moriarty only wanted to see her, Joan is willing to let it go for now. There’s something inside Joan that pushes her towards the woman. She wants to learn everything about her, just like Moriarty wants to learn what makes Joan tick. They have the same goal in mind and somehow it makes these secret meetings okay.

Joan spends an hour mentally preparing herself. Even if she isn’t afraid of Moriarty, she has to be in the right mind. The woman had told Joan that she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do. The problem isn’t Joan doing something she doesn’t want. The problem is Moriarty making Joan want it. She has to keep her wits about her.

It’s six in the evening when Joan presses an ear to the bathroom door. It’s quiet for a few seconds before she hears Sherlock snore. Smiling, she decides to let him rest in what now must be cool bath water. Joan heads into her room to get ready for the meeting that will take place in two hours.

She still feels that appearance is of the utmost importance when seeing Moriarty. The woman practically oozes confidence and Joan wishes to emit the same air. A dress this time? Yes that seems appropriate. She quickly picks out a sleeveless navy blue piece that falls to her knees. As she turns her back to the mirror and zips up the dress, Joan decides some tights will also go nicely with the outfit. Tying it all together are some lace up booties that give her height a nice boost. Joan ties her hair up before admiring her reflection. She certainly feels confident in this and it makes her all the more excited.

At seven o’clock, Joan raps on the bathroom door to wake Sherlock from his nap. Despite his protesting, he allows Joan to guide him to his room before collapsing on the bed. As she’s pulling the door shut, she hears him ask, “Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting someone. I need a break from the case, too. I’ll be back later.”

Sherlock mumbles something in response but Joan eases the door shut, knowing he’ll be asleep within a minute.

She calculates that it will take her twenty minutes to reach the restaurant and she should leave now if she doesn’t want to be late. She figures Moriarty will arrive exactly on time and Joan would rather be there first.

In the cab, Joan gathers her thoughts and begins to wonder what the night will hold. Feeling that they got all the messy questions out of the way in the museum, she imagines tonight will be something more casual. Getting to know each other. That’s what Moriarty had said, right?

Joan plays with the buckle on her clutch, her body coming alive with energy as she nears her destination.

“You all right, ma’am?” The taxi driver asks, eying her in the mirror. He mistakes her fidgeting for nervousness and she wants to laugh. She isn’t nervous in the least. In fact, it’s just the opposite. She feels thrilled and alert, ready to be pulled into the magnetic field of Moriarty’s presence.

“I’m great,” Joan answers, giving him a bright smile.

“Got a date?”

What? Joan glances down at her outfit and back up in the mirror. “Oh no, nothing like that. Just,” she tries to find the right words, “meeting someone for dinner.” That doesn’t sound much better. “A friend,” she corrects though the word feels weird in her mouth when associated with Moriarty.

“Ah,” the driver shakes his head with a smirk. Joan gets the feeling that he doesn’t believe her but she brushes it off as the restaurant comes into view. “Enjoy your not-date,” he says as he pulls up to the curb.

“Thank you,” Joan laughs. She quickly pays him and steps out onto the sidewalk. Glancing around, there is no sign of Moriarty or her car yet. Joan is thankful for this as it will give her some time to get settled before the woman arrives. Stepping inside the crowded restaurant, Joan makes her way to the hostess.

“How many?” The young woman behind the stand asks.

“Two,” Joan responds, scanning the busy waiting area. She mentally chides herself for not factoring this in.

“Name?”

“Joan. How long is the wait?”

“About forty minutes,” she smiles politely as she scans the paper in front of her. “Oh we actually have a reservation for you for eight o’clock.”

Joan blinks. “You do?”

“Yes,” the hostess grabs two menus and passes them to a man next to her. “Enjoy your meal!”

Joan almost rolls her eyes but finds herself smiling instead. Of course it’s something that Moriarty would do. Why would she want to wait around for a meal when she can waltz right in? Joan feels momentarily stupid as she imagines Moriarty calling to see if Joan had placed a reservation.

No matter. Joan settles into a comfortable booth facing the front doors and takes a deep breath. The atmosphere in the restaurant is comfortable with soft lighting. Servers walk around in pristine suits, carrying trays of food that looks too beautiful to eat. It’s a place that Joan has been wanting to visit for some time but is way out of her price range, even with the generous salary she receives working with Sherlock. Not that she has any concerns about that tonight.

She orders some white wine and sits back in her seat to watch the door. It’s five to eight and she’s expecting the woman at any moment now. Joan wonders what she will even say to Moriarty. What are they going to talk about? She doesn’t have time to ponder these thoughts for long as her eyes land on the tall blonde in the doorway. Just on time.

Moriarty somehow looks exhausted but elegant. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black dress with sequins on the shoulders. Her long legs are bare and held up by strappy boots. Her blonde hair is down tonight, waves pushed to the side and resting on her shoulder. When her eyes find Joan in the restaurant, they light up.

“Evening,” she smiles as she settles into the seat across from Joan. “This is a lovely place you’ve picked out. Surprising, though. Isn’t it a bit pricey for your taste?”

Joan shrugs lightly. “I had a feeling that wouldn’t be an issue.”

Moriarty laughs and Joan can tell it’s genuine. “You’re quite right.” She signals for the waiter as she eyes Joan’s drink. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

“Very well,” the man stammers with a blush, eyes roving over Moriarty’s body as he turns to leave.

“You have that effect on people,” Joan notes.

“What effect?”

“You fluster them.”

“Do I?” Moriarty rests her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand, playful smile gracing her lips.

“You don’t need me to tell you that,” Joan smiles back before taking a sip of her wine. She’d really be content just drinking for the night but a small growl in her stomach tells her that wouldn’t be wise. “Have you ever been here?” She asks as she picks up her menu.

“Once when I was in the area. They have excellent pasta if I remember correctly.” Moriarty scans the entrees and Joan notices just how tired her eyes look.

“Long day?” She inquires as she switches her gaze back to her menu.

“You could say that.” Moriarty purses her lips and creases her brow in thought. “I must admit I was shocked to hear from you so early. You do remember I suggested once a month, correct?”

Joan suddenly feels as though she has inconvenienced the mastermind greatly. “You don’t have to be here-“

Moriarty raises a hand to stop her before she can finish. “That’s not what I mean. I just wanted to make sure you knew my desires correctly. You don’t need to meet with me more than you wish to.”

Joan swallows thickly and looks into her wine glass. In truth, she was desperate to see the woman again. It's a welcoming break from her life buried in paperwork and interrogations. “I needed to get away from a case,” she says softly, watching as Moriarty receives her drink from the waiter with a smile. “Sherlock and I have been working on it for days with no end in sight.”

The blonde nods thoughtfully, blue eyes rapidly scanning Joan’s face. When she doesn’t offer a response, Joan feels the need to continue.

“You know how he can get,” she rolls her eyes at the memory of Sherlock standing in the computer room looking like a disheveled child. “He refuses to rest until he solves it. I practically had to force him to bathe this afternoon.”

Moriarty laughs and lifts her glass to her lips. “Yes, he can be like that,” she murmurs before taking a sip. “What’s the case?”

Joan briefly wonders if she should keep quiet but finds herself speaking anyway. She launches into a description of the crime scene they found and their immediate suspects. She explains all of their dead ends and Sherlock’s frustrations along the way. Throughout her speech, Moriarty watches her closely with the corner of her mouth upturned. She shakes her head at all the right moments and even cringes as Joan recalls their loss of evidence due to an unfortunate rainstorm.

When Joan finally reaches the end of her story, she finishes her drink in one gulp and waves for another. Sherlock would be furious if he knew she was indulging Moriarty of all people in their investigations but she remembers what the blonde had told her at the museum.

“You said you would help,” Joan blurts, “with any of our cases if I met with you.”

Moriarty nods slowly as she leans back in her seat. Her blonde hair looks radiant in the light and Joan momentarily gets caught up staring at it before she realizes Moriarty is speaking. “…you said and I’ll do what I can.”

“Sorry?” Joan pries her eyes off Moriarty’s waves and meets her eyes sheepishly, afraid she’ll be caught not paying attention.

The blonde only smirks and tilts her head. “I said you’re correct, Joan. It’s exactly as you said and I’ll do what I can.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Joan isn’t sure if she was expecting a fight but she finds Moriarty’s honesty disarming. “Do you need me to write down names or anything?”

Moriarty holds up a finger as their waiter returns to the table. She orders grilled salmon while Joan gets pasta with mozzarella, parmesan, and goat cheese. Their wine is refilled and then Moriarty turns her attention back to Joan.

“There’s no need to write anything down. I believe I know the names you speak of.” Her eyes close as she takes a long drink and Joan wonders how the woman relaxes at home. Does she curl up on the couch and daydream about crimes? Perhaps she throws darts at a wall covered in portraits. Joan is about to get lost in her imagination when her mind helpfully reminds her that Moriarty paints. Of course!

Joan sets her wine glass down and decides she’s had enough alcohol for now.

“There’s something else,” Moriarty states, eyes narrowing. “Why tonight?”

“I told you,” Joan sighs, “I needed to get away from the case.” It’s not entirely true but she hopes Moriarty will take the hint.

She doesn’t. “What aren’t you telling me, Joan?” An amused glint in her eyes, she crosses her arms and waits.

Joan smiles despite herself and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “All right. I had a dream about you.”

Moriarty’s eyebrows raise at this and she smiles, gesturing for Joan to continue.

“It’s not the first one I’ve had.” That was supposed to make it sound better but somehow it sounds worse. Moriarty’s smile widens and Joan groans. “They’re nightmares, okay.”

“I see,” the blonde nods and drops her gaze to the table. Joan briefly wonders if it’s possible to hurt the criminal’s feelings. “Tell me more.”

“You killed me,” Joan decides to skip right to the end.

Moriarty leans forward now, elbows on the table. Her icy stare holds Joan in place as she asks, “How?”

Joan’s mouth feels dry and she wishes she had some water. “You snapped my neck,” she answers, watching Moriarty’s expression carefully.

They’re silent for a minute, listening to the hum of the restaurant, before the blonde shakes her head. “That’s not how I’d do it.”

Not how she would do it? Joan isn’t sure how to interpret these words but they shouldn’t surprise her. Of course Moriarty knows exactly how she’d take Joan out if she had to. Still she has to ask, “You’ve thought about how to kill me?”

Moriarty waves her hand vaguely and swirls her wine glass around. “I’ve thought about how to kill everyone I’ve met.” Her eyes flick up to Joan’s and she smiles darkly. “It’s part of the job.”

“Lifestyle,” Joan snorts in response. Moriarty’s smile fades and she blinks at Joan. “It’s not really a job, is it? Not with you. This isn’t something you got dragged into against your will and there’s no one you report to. It’s something that you love. You choose to do this and it affects every aspect of your life. You don’t plan out how to kill someone because you have to. You do it because you enjoy it.”

Hearing herself say these words sobers Joan up. She is reminded once again that this isn’t just anyone she’s sitting across from. It’s a very powerful woman with the ability to cause a lot of damage for the fun of it. The reasonable part of her mind now asks her what the hell she’s doing here.

The women are staring at each other when their food is placed in front of them. Joan quietly asks for some water and thanks the waiter. She’s barely hungry anymore and the dish is way too much for her but she doesn’t want to leave without experiencing the food.

“Joan,” Moriarty whispers and when Joan looks up, she sees the blonde in a new light. It’s as if she has taken off a mask and Joan is taken aback. She doesn’t just look tired, she looks worn down with fatigue. There are bags under her eyes that Joan hadn’t notice before and she somehow seems paler.

“Joan. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Joan retorts, twirling pasta around her fork.

“I won’t kill you.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Joan looks up from her plate with a sigh. “Yes. I’m a work of art or something like that,” she recalls Moriarty’s words at the museum.

The blonde nods and reaches across the table to grab Joan’s hand. Joan tries to pull away but Moriarty grips tight. “Just listen to me for a moment.” When Joan relaxes, she goes on. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Joan interrupts.

Moriarty sighs. “No, just listen. I’m not going to hurt you. I am capable of positive relationships, Joan. I see certain people and I want to know them. You’re a brilliant woman and I wish to understand you.”

“This isn’t anything I haven’t heard before, Moriarty.”

“Please, call me Jamie.”

“No.” Joan has no desire to get familiar with the woman.

For a fleeting moment, Moriarty appears to be on the edge of pleading. It passes quickly and she pulls her hand away from Joan’s and into her lap. Like an accessory, the mask of arrogance is back on her face. “You asked me here tonight, Joan.”

“Yeah and I’m seeing that it was a mistake.” Joan sets her fork down as the waiter returns with her water. She finishes it in one go and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. Moriarty sits silently across from her, eyes narrowed and calculating. “Your salmon’s getting cold,” Joan says.

Moriarty shifts in her seat and glances down at her plate. “You’re not leaving?” Joan almost doesn't catch the hopeful tone in her otherwise bored voice.

“As soon as I’m full, I will be.” She shovels a forkful of pasta into her mouth and savors the rich flavors. Not even Moriarty can spoil the food here.

As she eats, Joan thinks about yet another side of Moriarty she has been introduced to. A vulnerable woman who seems unsure of herself, almost begging Joan to believe her when she says she won’t hurt her. Joan wonders if many people get to see this side of her. She wonders if it’s all an act. It’s not exactly a secret that Joan is a caring individual. It would be just like Moriarty to play on that.

Joan finally pushes her plate away, feeling satisfied. Moriarty quickly sets her fork down and swallows the food in her mouth. “Do you still want my help with the case?”

“No,” Joan answers as she waves the waiter over. “Can I get a box for this, please?” She plans on persuading Sherlock to eat some of this at home.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she smiles until he leaves and then turns her attention back to the blonde across from her. “Just forget I said anything. I’ll handle it.”

“You won’t solve it without my help. I know those names and they’re clever.”

“So am I.”

Moriarty laughs. “You’re right,” she says, balling up the napkin in her hand and setting it on the table. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She leans back in her seat as the waiter returns with a to-go box for Joan. The remaining pasta is transferred and the young man smiles brightly at the two of them.

“How about some dessert, ladies?”

“The most expensive thing you have for my friend here,” Joan smiles back.

“You got it!”

He leaves with the order and Moriarty raises an eyebrow at Joan. “Feel better?”

“No.” She gathers up her clutch and food and stands to leave when Moriarty leans across the table and lowers her voice. “You need to be careful, Joan.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Joan retorts and breezes past her, making a beeline for the front doors. She’s desperate for air and as soon as she’s outside, she heaves in a deep breath. The wine still buzzes in her veins and she feels slightly dizzy as she makes her way down the sidewalk. She’ll hail a cab in a minute but for now she wants to walk. It is not at all the evening she imagined and she wonders if she could possibly be any more stupid. What was she thinking?

Moriarty is not a friend. She is not a good person and she is not someone that Joan should be calling up for drinks. Pulling her hair free, Joan groans and fights back tears. She often forgets that Sherlock and the NYPD are her only source of socialization these days. She’s made the mistake of trusting criminals when they offer her company. Is she that lonely?

Something familiar twists in Joan’s gut. She thinks back to how happy she had been when Moriarty had walked into the restaurant. Adrenaline had filled her body, bringing her to life in the woman’s vicinity. She had wanted to bask in the ambiance, soak up Moriarty’s energy, and push soft hair out of those tired eyes.

Joan feels the burn in her throat a second before she vomits. Her ribs ache with the force and she feels mortified to be doing this in public. A gentle hand on her back murmurs comforting words and Joan is grateful for the stranger’s presence. Once she’s certain she won’t spew all over them, she turns to thank them.

She finds a small older woman giving her a sad smile. “Are you all right, honey?” She seems grandmotherly and Joan suddenly wants to cry, overwhelmed with emotions.

“I’m okay, thank you. I just need to get home.” That’s all she wants. She doesn’t want to think another stupid thought tonight.

“Do you need a ride?”

Joan smiles at the woman’s kindness but shakes her head. “I’m just going to get a taxi, but thank you so much. That’s so nice of you to offer.”

“I’ll stand with you until one gets here, dear. Just to make sure you’re okay.” She grabs Joan’s hand tightly and squeezes, a look of determination on her face.

Joan blinks away tears and waves for a cab, enjoying the warmth of the stranger’s hand while it lasts. She hasn’t had much human contact in the past few months. Sherlock is not a touchy person to say the least. Luckily, a cab pulls up within a few seconds to take Joan home.

“Thanks again,” she smiles at the woman before sliding into the backseat and giving her address to the driver. The woman waves at her as the cab pulls away and Joan laughs so she doesn’t cry.

As she looks out her window, she determinedly does not look back on her thoughts before she threw up. She thinks only of her bed and how welcoming it will be once she gets home.

 


	5. Hurry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan reflects on her dinner with Moriarty and deals with her feelings on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'm going to start doing shorter chapters so I put less pressure on myself to write a lot and that way I can update more :) Thank you as always to my wonderful beta, Kelly! And thank YOU ALL for the feedback and messages about the story! I love hearing from you and I'm so happy you like it.

The letter arrives two days later. Joan and Sherlock are tirelessly working to solve the same case without much progress. The wall is covered in papers and pictures, the floor littered with the crumpled remains of dead-end leads.

Joan runs her fingers through her hair with a heavy sigh. “I have to eat something,” she mutters, pushing books off of her lap and rising from the couch. “Do you want anything?”

Sherlock shakes his head so minutely that anyone but Joan would have missed it. He stays bowed over the file in his hands, eyes rapidly scanning the page.

Joan quietly goes through the process of making herself lunch, mind occupied with suspects and interrogations. It’s a case that seems to have them all baffled, no matter how many hours Sherlock spends rereading every piece of evidence. Tempers are wearing thin both at the brownstone and the precinct. With Captain Gregson calling every few hours to see if they’ve uncovered anything new, Joan is worried Sherlock might just smash his phone to pieces.

As she picks up her plate of food and turns to leave the kitchen, an envelope on the table catches her eye. Her initials are neatly typed on the front and from where she’s standing, it’s apparent it’s been ripped open. Gritting her teeth in frustration at Sherlock’s lack of privacy, she snatches the envelope and returns to the sitting room.

“Still opening my mail, I see.”

Sherlock gives her a sidelong glance and snaps the file shut. “I thought it might have been about the case.”

“With my initials?” Joan cocks her head and gives him a look that says she doesn’t buy that for a second.

Sherlock simply shrugs and turns his attention to his phone. Joan sighs and sets her food to the side, opting to find out what the envelope holds. Opening it, she finds a neatly folded piece of paper with two names and a string of numbers typed in small font.

Flipping it over, Joan finds the other side blank and blinks at Sherlock – who is obviously watching her – in confusion.

“That’s all?” she asks.

“Apparently so. Does it mean anything to you?”

“No. You?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

Joan stares at the letter as she scans her brain for any possible explanation. The names aren’t familiar to her and the numbers could be anything. The longer she tries to figure it out, the more lost she feels. Just as she’s about to set it aside and focus on something else, the pieces click in her mind.

“It’s a date,” she whispers, staring at the first six numbers. The night – or early morning really - that Moriarty broke into their house. Joan mentally berates herself for memorizing it.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

Joan clears her throat before explaining, “At the beginning of the numbers, it looks like the 18th of May. It’s written day before month, but that’s common for you isn’t it?” She knows it is.

“Hm yes,” Sherlock gives her a calculating look, “it appears our mystery writer is not American.”

Joan has to swallow down her anger at the recklessness of sending a letter to the brownstone. Every feeling and thought from the dinner with Moriarty comes flooding back. Joan telling her about the case, reminding her that she said she would help, storming off and stating she would solve it herself. Moriarty had mentioned that she knew the names and apparently she just couldn’t help herself.

“What happened on May 18th?” Joan finds herself asking, desperate to not give anything away. Irritation scratches under her skin and she has to fight the urge to fidget in her seat, knowing that would catch Sherlock’s attention.

“We received that horrible case from Gregson. Mistresses,” he scowls.

Joan vaguely remembers staking out a building with Sherlock before they went their separate ways. She really had been too preoccupied thinking of Moriarty and receiving letters from henchmen. The beginning of it all.

“You don’t think that has anything to do with our current case, do you?” she asks.

“I don’t see how it possibly could. That was an utter waste of a day.”

“Right,” Joan mutters, grabbing her plate of untouched food. The whole situation has caused her to lose her appetite. The only thing she feels is frustration and the need to scream. While she’s sure Moriarty’s letter holds some key to unlocking their case, she wishes she didn’t have to look at it any longer.

Sherlock’s eyes scan her face. “Something bothering you, Watson?”

Only the criminal who seems set on playing games when she doesn’t get her way. Joan walks out on her, Moriarty sends mail directly to the brownstone. It’s completely unnecessary when email has been their way of communicating. No, Moriarty did this out of spite. Now Sherlock is giving Joan odd looks and she has to play dumb.

“I’m fine,” she waves him off, “just tired. I’m going to clean this up and then we can work on the letter, okay?” She heads to the kitchen before he can respond.

 

* * *

 

They solve the case.

Gregson and Bell thank them profusely for their help and Joan smiles politely before excusing herself to head home. Sherlock stays behind but promises to see her later that evening.

Joan’s head is swimming and she isn’t sure she can survive another day keeping her thoughts to herself. It’s true that they wouldn’t have solved anything without Moriarty’s help and though Sherlock hasn’t questioned Joan outright, she knows he’s suspicious. He might not know who exactly the letter came from but he has to know that she’s hiding something from him.

Joan cannot escape the woman. Moriarty is around every corner and behind every door. Small, ridiculous things bring her to mind; expensive black cars rolling innocuously through New York traffic and white wine sitting on the shelf at the grocery store. The larger things are impossible to ignore. The surname Fuller and a van Dyck painting anonymously donated to the Metropolitan.

It’s only after the case is solved that Joan allows herself to examine her mind. She has the brownstone to herself while Sherlock is at the precinct so she draws a bath and settles into the warm water. Even in the early days of summer, a strange chill seems to permeate Joan’s bones.

Submerged in the water, she takes deep breaths and begins to relax. As an ex sober companion, Joan knows plenty of ways to keep the mind distracted from something dangerous. Though this implies that Moriarty is an addiction, and Joan chooses not to chew on that for too long. The point is that none of these techniques that she taught people are working on her.

And so in the quiet warmth of the bathtub, Joan opens the floodgates in her mind for examination.

Even as Irene Adler, Joan felt an attraction to the woman. Not necessarily a romantic or sexual attraction, but a pull nonetheless. Damaged and confused as she seemed, an air of intrigue surrounded her. Joan often found herself staring when Sherlock and Irene were occupied talking to each other.

Now as Moriarty, the pull has become stronger, more magnetic. She is dominant and confident, demanding the attention of every room she walks into. Joan feels defenseless to every glance and smirk, unable to stop herself from being drawn in.

Sliding her head beneath the water, Joan recollects the strange dinner. There was palpable excitement prior to the engagement as Joan was practically bouncing with energy. The moment she saw Moriarty enter the restaurant, her heart began pounding in her chest – and not from fear. No, it was a moment of _finally_ and _there you are_.

Staring up at the ceiling through blurry eyes, Joan ignores the burn in her lungs. Her imagination helpfully supplies the memory of Moriarty in the bathroom and Joan breaks through the surface of the water in a hurry, eyes irrationally scanning the room.

This is where Joan’s stomach begins to hurt because it’s not terror that has her searching every nook and cranny for the familiar silhouette. It’s a sick and twisted hope that maybe, just maybe, the woman will be there waiting for her to notice.

“Damn it,” Joan murmurs to herself, pulling her knees up to her chest. She hasn’t felt this confused since she was a young teenager. Drops of water cling to her eyelashes and she blinks them away. There’s one more moment of that night to cover, no matter how much Joan wants to forget.

After Moriarty casually stated that she wouldn’t kill her by snapping her neck, Joan was filled to the brim with burning anger. Though as the dinner wore on, it was becoming more and more apparent that this emotion wasn’t directed at Moriarty. It was all at Joan herself because throughout the remainder of their time together, she couldn’t crush the desire she felt.

Her grandmother once told her that soul mates are not always people who are in love with each other. They are simply designed to give each other exactly what they need, whether they know it or not.

_“How do people know who their soul mate is?” eight-year-old Joan asked._

_“Well that’s easy,” her grandmother smiled at her. “When you meet them, it triggers something in your heart. There’s a sense of belonging and everything fitting together perfectly. They teach you things you never thought you could learn and they give you the tools you need to be the best self you can be.”_

_“This sounds like love,” Joan pointed out._

_Her grandmother laughed. “Oh child,” her hands gently cupped Joan’s face, eyes shining with delight, “who’s to say what love is?”_

Joan doesn’t believe in soul mates. Whatever this is, her feelings for Moriarty, they will pass. It’s the risk that Joan is attracted to, it has to be. She’s an adrenaline junkie and danger seeker. Being around a powerful criminal can be addicting, surely.

Running her hand over her face, Joan realizes the water has gone cold. Wading inside her mind has taken a lot longer than she expected. Drying off, she makes her way into her room and decides to call it an early night.

 

* * *

 

She allows a full month to go by before she considers contacting Moriarty again. The woman is bound to be expecting it for their next meeting and Joan would be lying if she said she was no longer interested. She tells herself that the dinner was a moment of weakness and she will be stronger in the future, always keeping it in the front of her mind that Moriarty is dangerous.

On a hot Wednesday morning, Joan decides to go for a jog while thinking up possible meeting places. The air is thick and muggy and as she first steps outside, it makes her feel sluggish. Joan powers through, flipping on her music and turning left on the sidewalk.

They could meet at bar, Joan thinks and laughs at the idea. The last thing she needs is to be drunk around Moriarty. Actually, the idea is slightly terrifying. Who knows the sort of trouble she could get herself into?

Fifteen minutes into her jog, Joan reaches the park where she first got a note from one of Moriarty’s men. She stops for a break and walks around the perimeter, smiling at the small children on the playground. The area is certainly public and Joan doubts Moriarty would try anything when there are kids around. She doesn’t even bother to wait until she’s home at her computer. Pulling her phone out, she opens her email and types in the name of the park with a meeting time of noon.

If Joan's heart is beating slightly faster, she blames it on the exercise. She has about three hours to prepare for the meeting so she continues her jog. There's no point in heading back home already and sitting around with all the anticipation churning in her stomach. No, the running will give her something to occupy her mind for the time being. Besides, what if Moriarty responds and says she can't make it so soon? Joan swallows the disappointment that she feels at the very idea.

Her lungs and legs burn as she sprints through the city. She is far beyond pacing herself but doesn’t really care for the time being. One foot in front of the other, dodging people and pushing herself farther and farther. Joan doesn’t admit to herself that she’s running from something - or someone. She ignores the deep, scalding pain that shoots through her muscles, turns her music up louder, and continues to run.

She’s exhausted when she reaches the brownstone forty-five minutes later. Sweat runs down her neck, her thighs, and the backs of her knees. Joan takes a moment outside to calm down and focus on her breathing. She’s seen plenty of panic attacks and knows she’s on the verge of one herself. She knows it will accomplish nothing, this anxiety, yet it scratches at the back of her mind. A few more deep breaths before she heads inside.

“Watson,” Sherlock nods his greeting from the sitting room.

“Hey. I’ll be down in a minute, I need a shower.” She pulls her jacket off and tucks her earbuds in the pocket.

Sherlock hums a response but she doesn’t hear it as she’s already halfway up the stairs. She showers in cold water, relishing the feel of it on her too-warm skin. As Joan’s rinsing shampoo from her hair, she realizes that she hadn’t even checked her messages after the run. She finishes rinsing off and hastily dries one hand. When she picks up her phone from the edge of the sink, an email alert blinks at her and she selects it.

_Let’s make it ten._

Joan glances at the time to find that it’s five till.

“Shit!”

She hurries to her room to get ready, already feeling stressed about being late. It will take her at least ten minutes to even get to the park. Pushing aside her instinctual desire to call and let Moriarty know, Joan dresses and shoves her wet hair into a messy bun. Heart hammering in her chest – she really loathes being late, Moriarty must know – she runs down the stairs and grabs her bag.

“Sherlock,” she calls when she finds he’s no longer in the sitting room. “I’m going out, I’ll be back!”

When there’s no response, Joan curses under her breath and takes a moment to look for him, feeling that she can’t leave without letting him know. She finds him in the kitchen, making a face at a carton of spoiled milk.

“There you are,” he remarks. “Ready to go over some stuff?”

“What stuff?” Joan asks, irritation pricking at her skin. She can never make it to the park in time and Sherlock suddenly wanting to chat is just making her feel agitated.

“Possible case,” Sherlock points to a newspaper folded up on the table. “I thought we could look through it tonight and see what we can find.”

“Tomorrow, okay? I’m just going out.”

Sherlock pauses and scans her up and down. “Date?”

Joan simply raises her eyebrows.

“You seem to be in a hurry,” Sherlock points out. “All of your friends would understand you being a few minutes late. Especially now that you’re working with me, isn’t that right? No, you’re all,” he waves his hands around, “frazzled.”

“I am not frazzled,” Joan protests, smoothing down the front of her shirt. Then with a shake of her head, “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I have to go.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock purses his lips at her but waves her out of the room. “Go on then, enjoy your romantic rendezvous. Do try to get some sex though, you could use it.”

Joan turns and gapes at him. “Sherlock!”

“What?”

“Stay out of my sex life.”

Sherlock scratches at his chin with a shrug. “Dismal task, I know, but the body does seem to require it on some occasions.”

Joan scoffs and points to the closed bedroom door. “I know. I’ve made coffee for plenty of those occasions.”

“Much appreciated,” he grins.

Joan rolls her eyes and finally leaves the kitchen. A glance at her phone tells her it’s now five after ten. Frankly, she’s surprised there isn’t a whiny email about her being tardy. With a sigh, she heads outside and begins to wave for a taxi.

“You’re late.” Ice and anger flood Joan’s veins as she whirls around to find a very smug Jamie Moriarty standing not ten feet away.

Not here. She can’t be here in broad daylight when Sherlock can look outside at any moment. Joan’s hands clench into fists as she approaches her.

“What the hell are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

Moriarty feigns innocence, cocking her head and pouting. “Why?”

Joan glances at the brownstone before pushing Moriarty until they reach the end of the sidewalk. “Seriously?” Joan glares at her. “You didn’t even go to the park, did you?”

The blonde shakes her head and lets her eyes rove over Joan’s body as she replies, “I knew you wouldn’t make it in time.”

“Then why let me stress about it?” Joan knows she shouldn’t have said it the moment it leaves her mouth.

Moriarty’s eyes light up and a sly smile spreads across her face. “Joan, I’m touched. You stressed about being on time? Just for me?”

Joan wants to wipe that smirk off her face. She wants to pummel her. She wants to go back home and forget the fact that her heart is racing.

“You sent me that email just to mess with me,” Joan comments. It makes perfect sense, really. If Moriarty has men watching her, they would know when she left the park and when she returned home. They would let their boss know that her little pawn would never make it for the meeting before ten-thirty.

Moriarty shrugs but humor still dances in her eyes. “You look very well for someone who dressed in a hurry.”

Joan wants to ignore the compliment. She doesn’t want to glance down at her own outfit and tuck a loose hair behind her ear. She doesn’t want to blush either. But she does.

“We can’t stay here,” she changes the subject, gazing at the brownstone once more. “Sherlock can’t see you.”

“Oh but isn’t this fun?” Moriarty grins. “Knowing that he could come outside at any moment and find you here with me.” She clutches her heart dramatically. “Imagine the betrayal!”

Joan grits her teeth and begins walking down the street, away from home. She knows that Moriarty will follow so she might as well lead her far from where Sherlock can spot the two of them. As expected, the blonde is quick to fall in stride beside her, chin up, a smile on her face.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Joan disregards her and raises her arm once again for a taxi.

“We’ll take my car,” Moriarty says with a look over her shoulder. Joan turns to find the black car following them and she rolls her eyes.

“We’ll take a cab or we won’t go anywhere.” She stops and stares hard at Moriarty.

The criminal narrows her eyes minutely but the corner of her mouth lifts. “As you wish.”

Satisfied, Joan turns her attention back to the street and pretends she can’t feel blue eyes all over her skin.


	6. Inquire

“What do you want from me?”

“Oh do quit asking that question. I’ve answered it more times than necessary.”

The women are finally sitting in the park of Joan’s choosing. As expected, plenty of people are there to enjoy the warm summer afternoon. They’re seated on a bench beneath a tree that gives the perfect amount of shade, though Moriarty fans herself with a look of annoyance.

“No I know,” Joan states, “but I mean what do you want me to say? To do?”

The blonde gazes at her thoughtfully before turning to face her completely. She’s dressed more casually today in jeans and a blouse, hair pulled up into a loose ponytail. Joan finds it completely disarming but she figures that’s the idea.

“Tell me about yourself,” Moriarty replies. “I want to know everything.”

Joan levels her with a look. That’s not going to happen. While she agreed to meet with the woman and allow some familiarity to form between them, she’s quite certain she won’t hand over her life story. For all she knows, this could be a giant ploy to pluck information from her until Moriarty has everything she needs to destroy her. Or worse, Sherlock.

Then again, Joan has already seen what happens when Moriarty doesn’t get what she wants. She’s still dealing with odd looks from her partner for the damned letter that arrived.

“I’m not going to thank you for your help,” Joan remarks.

Moriarty doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t expect you to.”

“It was reckless.”

“Wasn’t it just?”

The two lock in a stare and Joan clenches her jaw as she watches delight dance in Moriarty’s eyes. Joan wants to point out that Sherlock finding out about this little… arrangement of theirs could ruin the thing entirely. Then Moriarty would never get to know anything. Joan looks away, wishing she believed that.

“Do you like celebrating your birthday?” The criminal asks.

“Sorry?”

“Your birthday,” she repeats. “Some people make such a big deal of it they demand a week to be dedicated to them. Others cringe if you dare so much as mention it. Which are you?”

Whether it’s the clothing or the gentle, curious look in Moriarty’s eyes, Joan isn’t sure but she finds herself comfortable with answering.

“I don’t like it to be a major deal but it’s nice to be remembered and acknowledged. Dinner or drinks with friends is nice.”

Moriarty smiles and props her elbow on the back of the bench, resting her head in her hand. “What did you do last year?”

Joan has to think for a moment before it pops into her mind. She feels a grin spread across her face at the memory. Her mother had made reservations at a fancy restaurant and didn’t tell Joan until the last minute. She was rushed to get prepared and irritated with her mother for the late warning. As she was pushed into the restaurant and steered to the appropriate table, she heard a familiar giggle and looked up to find all of her closest friends seated with grins on their faces.

Joan had been immediately filled with joy at this surprise and accepted their birthday wishes with hugs. After they had ordered drinks and settled into a conversation, her mother nudged her ribs. Turning to face her, Joan found Oren standing beside the table. It had been years since she had seen her brother and she had scrambled from her seat to throw her arms around him. The rest of the night was filled with side-splitting laughter and countless memories being made.

“I got to see my brother,” Joan replies with a smile on her face.

“Are you two close?”

Joan shrugs. “Sometimes. We were really close as children because of my father.” She glances down at her hands folded in her lap. She can feel Moriarty’s gaze on her but it’s not a topic she wishes to continue with.

She’s grateful when the woman breaks the silence with, “I loathed my birthday.”

Joan flicks her eyes to Moriarty to find that she’s watching children on the playground. “You did?”

“Still do, actually.”

“Birthdays in general or only yours?”

Quieter now, “Just mine.”

Joan struggles with this information, finding it a little bit hard to believe. Moriarty seems exactly like the kind of person who would demand a week’s dedication or go on a crime spree in celebration. Joan doesn’t know what to say to the blonde beside her who has very slightly narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

“Is there a particular reason for that?” Joan asks, hoping the tension in Moriarty’s features isn’t directed at her.

The criminal turns her attention back to Joan and sighs deeply. “I suppose there is but it’s not of importance.”

She looks tired now, as if this topic of conversation is draining her. Joan can’t help but wonder why. Nor can she help her burning curiosity. For someone so confident, strong, and extravagant to not just dislike but _loathe_ their own birthday is incomprehensible. So Joan decides to push.

“Well that’s not fair.”

Moriarty blinks in question.

“I told you how I felt about my birthday,” she explains. “I even described the events of my last one to you and that was personal.”

The younger woman furrows her brow and nods so subtly that Joan almost misses it. “Is this going to be our deal, then? Whatever you give me, I have to give you in return and vice versa?”

Joan sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she mulls this over. It could work to her advantage but also put her in uncomfortable positions when reversed. She already agreed to these meetings in the first place, so she shouldn’t have to offer more than she wants. Then again, she can’t ignore the way this unspoken challenge burns in her stomach. She feels small tendrils of excitement snaking through her veins and finds she can’t stop the way the corner of mouth twitches upward.

“Yes.”

Moriarty leans closer and with the wind at her back, Joan can smell the sweet, expensive perfume that clings to her. “Just today?”

“We’ll see how it goes,” Joan answers honestly. It could be disastrous and she isn’t ready to sign up for the entire thing just yet.

Moriarty’s blue eyes sparkle and a thin smile appears on her face. Joan has seen this particular smile on more than one occasion and something devious always follows. The warmth in Joan’s stomach spreads to her chest.

“All right, but we’ll come back to my birthday later. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“You may go first since I am postponing that particular question.”

Joan thinks for a moment, wanting to use this perfect opportunity to get information without giving too much away in return. She could ask deep, personal questions or play it safe and learn about the tiny things that make Jamie Moriarty tick. Speaking of which…

“Is that your real name?” she inquires.

Moriarty doesn’t look the least bit surprised by the question. “Is what my real name?”

Joan rolls her eyes at the stubbornness that frankly reminds her of the adult-sized child she lives with. “Moriarty.”

“Believe it or not,” she begins, “it is. And you can say it, you know. My name.”

“Moriarty,” Joan repeats, feeling somewhat stupid for doing so.

The other woman’s brow creases. “Jamie Moriarty. Jamie. You do know you may call me that, Joan. I believe we’re on a first-name basis here, are we not?”

Joan shakes her head in disagreement. “I never said we were, you just started with it.” She remembers how the woman showed up in her bathroom, Joan’s name in her mouth. She never did stay Watson for very long.

“But isn’t it so tiring? Such a long name,” Moriarty counters.

Joan tries to think of other four-syllable last names but can only come up with three. While calling the blonde Jamie would be a lot simpler, Joan feels it’s the last thing she should be doing. It’s somehow the barrier through which she could never go back if she passes through.

“I’ll manage.”

Moriarty sighs and shrugs halfheartedly. “As you wish,” she mutters. “Now that was a bad question because I know for a fact that Joan Watson is your real name. My turn then.” She shifts in her seat and stares at Joan for several seconds. “When’s the last time you had sex?”

Joan can barely contain her scoff. “Are you in high school?” she asks.

Moriarty is unaffected by her displeasure. “When?”

The answer takes a bit to find as Joan goes through her mental calendar and sifts through dates and evenings out with her friends. Eventually, she stumbles upon the memory. “It’s been about nine months,” she answers.

The younger woman looks scandalized. “Joan! You poor thing.”

While she isn’t embarrassed by this, Joan finds the delight in Moriarty’s eyes unnerving. She decides to quickly return the question. “When was the last time for you?” It’s all so very teenager that Joan has to focus on not rolling her eyes.

“About a month ago,” Moriarty answers easily. “Right after our dinner, in fact.”

Without her permission, Joan’s body tenses entirely upon hearing this. An unidentified emotion courses through every limb and she focuses on relaxing her muscles, trying to control it. She watches Moriarty watch her and feels as though a giant green arrow may as well be lit up above her head. Unwilling to sort through the sensations, Joan looks away and takes a deep breath.

“Wonderful. How many people have you killed?”

The woman’s eyes darken and she purses her lips. “Joan,” she says it softly as if around a frightened animal. “Be careful. Do you want to ask that?”

Joan knows what she’s insinuating. The inquiry will boomerang back to her, whether she likes it or not. She doesn’t, but with the uncomfortable prickling beneath her skin, she has to remind herself just who Moriarty is. She nods once, firmly.

The criminal’s eyes flick across Joan’s face as she answers. “I’ve no idea.” When Joan gives her a look of disbelief, she elaborates. “Really, I don’t. I lost count a long time ago.”

“Estimate,” Joan demands.

“It’s been at least one-hundred so far this year.”

Joan swallows thickly and averts her gaze. She’s more surprised at the lack of surprise she feels at the response. She isn’t certain of how long Moriarty has been active or if this is a slow or prosperous year for her. Do a lot of deaths count as prosperous?

“How many people have you killed, Joan Watson?” The question is voiced quietly but it does nothing to soften the blow.

“Two.” Memories of the hospital flood her mind and she is assaulted with images she has been trying to bury for too long. “I’m not explaining,” she states, looking Moriarty in the eye. The other woman looks back, curiosity visible on her face. Joan has the feeling that she wants to pry and is about to, despite Joan denying any further elaboration. A few minutes of silence go by before Moriarty breaks it.

“Very well,” she folds her hands in her lap and takes a deep breath. “I don’t like my birthday because it’s pointless. I surround myself with the people who are necessary to be successful and they couldn’t care less. A few dozen heartless good wishes,” she pauses to look up at the gray clouds gathering above them, “That’s not worth anything to me. Better to forget about it entirely.”

Grateful for the change of subject, Joan ignores the pang she feels in her chest. She shouldn’t feel bad for people like Moriarty but she does. Clearly there is more to the woman that what Joan has already been exposed to. There is a conflicted, emotional being behind the cold intelligence and intimidating demeanor. Joan can’t imagine being surrounded by people who didn’t care about her at all.

A drop of rain hits her thigh but she pays it no mind as she carefully forms her next question. “Are you lonely?”

Moriarty laughs, short and humorless. “Please,” she tilts her head at Joan and the mask has reappeared on her face. “Do you have any idea the amount of people I see and talk to every day?”

“That doesn’t really mean anything though, does it?” Joan counters.

The blonde squints as a light rain begins to fall. Neither of the women make any move to shelter themselves. “I have people I trust, Joan. That’s all I need.”

“It really isn’t or you wouldn’t have come to me in the first place. You need to feed your mind and learn new things, new people. Your ultimate goal isn’t to trust me. It’s to gain knowledge and figure me out. You said so yourself at the museum. People obey your commands and you run your little games and schemes whenever you like. There are those that admire you and those that fear you but none that love you. You don’t have to say it, Moriarty, but you’re completely alone.”

Joan expects venom to spit from the younger woman’s tongue. She expects violence and threats, a clenched jaw or narrowed eyes even. She is not at all prepared for the deep, genuine laugh that erupts from the mastermind beside her. Moriarty’s eyes glow with mirth and she rests a hand on her stomach as she guffaws, leaving Joan speechless and confused. The rain has steadily increased and parents are shooing their children out of the sandboxes and into their cars. Joan has secretly always loved getting caught in rainstorms and the joy combined with her surprise quickly has her laughing along.

A full minute passes before Moriarty’s laughter subsides and she turns to Joan with a lingering grin. Water sticks to her eyelashes and a few stray hairs are plastered to her forehead. Her blouse sticks to her skin and goosebumps appear on her arms as a wind blows.

She’s beautiful like this, Joan thinks. A look of childlike delight remains on her face and her eyes are brighter than Joan has ever seen. If she had just met her and knew nothing about her, Joan would have figured her for a beauty pageant queen or shy but sexy librarian. She might have even asked her out for coffee.

Joan’s ribs ache from the force of her laughter but after a few deep breaths, she’s able to calm herself down. Her first thought is to apologize but she bites her tongue, swallows the idea, and instead clears her throat.

“Do you want to maybe relocate?” A not-so-distant crack of thunder punctuates her question.

“I suppose,” Moriarty sighs, tilting her face upwards and closing her eyes. “I do love thunderstorms, though.”

Joan regards her thoughtfully. She watches as fat droplets of water hit her forehead and run across her temple and behind the curve of her ear. She watches as the blonde opens her mouth the slightest bit and catches the rain on the tip of her tongue. She watches as small rivulets form down her chin and throat and get caught in the dip of her collarbone.

“So do I,” Joan whispers and it’s almost lost to the roar of the weather.

Moriarty opens her eyes and turns her face to Joan. “We could stay. If you want,” she suggests with a small shrug as if it makes no difference to her. Joan suppresses a smile and has a feeling that the woman does indeed have an opinion and hopes to appear nonchalant about it.

So Joan stands. “Come on,” she smiles and points northeast, “the storm is heading that way. We can follow it.”

Moriarty glances in the general direction and shakes her head but gets to her feet. “All right,” she agrees with a laugh. It’s light and breezy, a musical sound when true and not used as a social tactic. Joan decides she likes this sound and tucks it away in her mind.

They walk slowly, rain falling heavy on their heads. Thunder rumbles and occasionally a close one will take them by surprise, shaking the ground at their feet. People hustle by them, huddled under their umbrellas and coats. Some give them odd looks as they shuffle along but Joan pays no mind, all of her attention on their conversation.

Birthdays forgotten, they continue their little challenge. It’s not nearly as scary as before. In fact, now it feels a lot like 20 Questions and Joan is reminded of late-night sleepovers when she was a young girl.

“It’s Quinn,” Moriarty says of her middle name.

Joan scrunches her nose. “Really? Quinn?”

The blonde has removed the elastic band from her hair and it lies in thick strands that stick to her neck and the side of her face. She tucks some behind her ear as she turns to Joan. “Yes, why?”

“I don’t know,” Joan shrugs. “You just don’t look like a Quinn.”

“I’ll have you know that it means wise, Miss Watson.” Moriarty gives her a cheeky smile and wiggles her eyebrows. “I must have radiated intelligence from my very birth.”

Joan laughs at this, followed by a shiver as the wind picks up. Still, it cannot beat the deep feeling of comfort that fills her body. She doesn’t feel as if she’s in the presence of anyone or anything dangerous. She is completely relaxed, content, and can freely admit – silently – that she is actually enjoying herself.

“How about you?” Moriarty asks when a small silence has stretched between them. “What’s your middle name?”

Joan shakes her head. “I don’t have one, actually.”

The blonde side-steps a puddle with a scoff. “You’re lying.”

Joan bites her lip to prevent a smile and shakes her head. “No really, I wasn’t given one.”

Moriarty rubs at her upper arms and blinks water free from her eyelashes. “What does it start with?” she asks.

There really isn’t any point in trying to fool the woman but Joan can’t be blamed for the effort. She holds back a laugh, confident the name will never be guessed. A particularly loud boom of thunder momentarily makes her pause but she recovers quickly and finds herself half-yelling over the roar of the rain.

“J!”

Moriarty nods to let Joan know she heard her. She furrows her brow and looks down at her feet as they walk. Joan can practically see the gears turning in her mind as she compiles a list of guesses.

“Janine?”

“No.”

Moriarty licks her lips. “Jennifer?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Jessica?”

“Nope.”

Her tongue pokes out in concentration and Joan is transfixed by the sight. “Jordan, Jasmine, or Joy?”

Joan shakes her head no.

Moriarty gives her an annoyed look but Joan finds it oddly endearing. She raises her eyebrows to prompt the blonde to continue.

“June, Judith, Jody, Jane, Jocelyn, Jana, Janet, Jacqueline, Jill, Joanne.” They are no longer inquiries but statements, pouring off Moriarty’s tongue at a fast pace that Joan struggles to keep up with.

“Joan Joanne?” Joan questions.

The blonde waves her hand in dismissal. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, apparently pondering any other possibilities. Joan stays quiet and takes in their surroundings. She isn’t entirely sure where they are as she hasn’t been paying much attention. The rain is starting to let up but there’s no sight of the sun that filled the sky during her morning jog.

Beside her, Moriarty groans in frustration. “I give up. What is it?”

Joan feels a small sense of pride at stumping the mastermind. She gives Moriarty her best smug look as she answers, “Jamie.” As the blonde’s mouth opens to speak, Joan immediately puts her hand up. “No, I’m not calling you that, I’m telling you. It’s my middle name.”

“It is not,” Moriarty protests. She stops dead in her tracks and pulls on the belly of her shirt, the fabric making a loud sucking noise as it sticks to her skin.

Joan stops as well, moving out of the way as a man walks by with an umbrella that looks like it should be covering ten people. “It really is,” she nods and cherishes the look of conflict on the other woman’s face.

“Your name,” Moriarty blinks rapidly, “is Joan Jamie Watson?”

“Do you really think if I was going to pick a fake name, I would pick yours out of all the possibilities?” Joan retorts.

The blonde _almost_ looks offended but the expression is quickly wiped away. Instead, she dons her trademark smirk and leans forward.

“You’re very lucky to carry that name,” she pats Joan on the shoulder and continues walking.

Through the chill of the wind and rain, the skin on Joan’s shoulder burns from the contact. A small tingling sensation travels across the back of her neck and down her spine. She is suddenly warm and glances around for a light in the clouds. Still, the sun is hidden and Joan’s eyes flick to Moriarty’s retreating form. The woman halts and turns around when she realizes Joan is still behind.

“Come on!” she calls, “I have so many more questions!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joan's middle name was a happy coincidence! I looked up the meaning of Hamish (since that is John Watson's middle name) and found that it is a variation of James. I wondered if I should pick something else but figured Moriarty could have fun with that ;)


	7. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-ho, this is still going on! :) Thanks as always to my beta, Kelly, who is allowed to take as long as she needs to review my chapters. Hope the new year is going well for you all so far!
> 
>  
> 
> **This chapter is NSFW!**

The warm crackle of the fireplace is Joan’s only companion in the late evening. Sherlock is out with Alfredo and the sweet silence of the house has her falling into the clutches of sleep. Behind her eyelids, she finds Moriarty with a grin on her face. It’s unsettling for Joan and she shifts where she lies on the couch in an attempt to clear the feeling in her gut.

After spending an afternoon gallivanting through the city in a rainstorm, Joan felt lighter somehow. Each step was easier to take, every smile easy upon her face. Once they were thoroughly soaked and tired of the weather, the women had sought refuge in a small, unassuming café. In the corner by a window, they sipped their coffee and chatted amicably about everyday things.

It almost felt like a first date in a way. Moriarty asked Joan about all of her favorite things, from color to clothing brand. As was their deal, Moriarty then spilled forth all of her own favorites and even the things she hated the most. Their bodies nearly dry and their cups empty, the criminal thanked Joan for a wonderful meeting. As she passed Joan on her way to the door, her fingertips might have grazed Joan’s arm but she can’t be too certain.

Now Joan blinks at the fire, feeling various levels of discomfort as she sifts through the day’s events. Perhaps it’s the fact that she let her guard down when she told herself she would be more alert. Maybe it’s the way she felt at-ease and enjoyed the outing greatly. There had been laughter – genuine and heartfelt – and stories that Joan never imagined she’d share with people, let alone Moriarty.

With effort, Joan pulls herself from the couch and pads downstairs to the kitchen. As she makes herself a cup of tea, she wonders what their next meeting will hold. She pauses while reaching for a mug, trying to determine whether her irregular heartbeat stems from excitement or dread. In a way, she feels disappointed in herself for allowing familiarity to form between them so soon. She has only seen Moriarty three times – not counting the home invasion – and already a change has taken place.

While a sense of fear certainly remains in the back of her mind, anticipation has taken control. Joan craves more meetings and even more conversations. She is enthralled and hungry for further experiences with the woman. Without a doubt, Moriarty sneaked into Joan’s mind and planted a seed that is growing far beyond Joan’s expectations. Each day she wakes with new desires and ideas for future encounters because they’re fascinating and she can’t get enough.

Tea in hand, Joan returns to the comfort of the sitting room. As she’s settling down with a book, the front door opens and Sherlock strolls in.

“Watson,” he greets, dropping into his chair by the fire.

“How was Alfredo?” she asks.

“He’s well,” Sherlock responds, fingers tapping against the armrest. “You look tired.”

Joan isn’t surprised to hear this and she runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. While her day contained no extreme physical activities, it has certainly taken a toll on her body and mind. She feels heavy with thoughts and emotions that she is already sick of trying to sort through. One feeling in particular sticks out like a sore thumb and begs to be dealt with.

A crushing sense of guilt.

Her partner sits across from her, eyes trained on the floor as his brain is focused elsewhere. He trusts Joan explicitly and here she is having secret rendezvous with quite possibly the only person he has loved. Joan still sees the anger burn in his eyes when something triggers a memory for him. His jaw clenches tight, his nostrils flare, and his body slumps in a defeated sort of way. Joan swallows thickly and takes a large drink from her mug.

She’ll tell him. Surely she can make him understand the situation. He is a man who thrives on intellect and puzzles. Will he blame Joan for taking on a challenge of her own? Normally, no, but if this challenge involves a specific blonde woman from his past, that’s a whole ‘nother ballgame.

The only sounds in the room are the wood creaking in the fireplace and a soft ting as Joan’s bracelet hits the side of her mug. She can practically feel Sherlock thinking and when his eyes lift to hers, she doesn’t look away.

“All right, Watson?” A small frown creases his brow but he’s stopped his incessant tapping of the armrest and put all his attention on her.

“Yes,” Joan nods with a small smile to convince him, “It’s been a long day and we have no cases so time drags by. You know how it is.”

Sherlock scowls at the lack of casework and hums in agreement. “How was your date?”

Joan’s body stiffens minutely but she’s quick to answer. “It was not a date and it was fine.”

“Right,” Sherlock nods and folds his hands across his stomach. “Is that why you’re so tired? All of that sexual activity.”

Joan goes to purse her lips but a quiet laugh escapes. “You got it,” she shakes her head, “as always. I have had so much sex today, I just don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Should’ve brought them back here. I could’ve made coffee to return so many favors.”

Joan laughs freely and stands with her empty mug. “Rest assured I will not be bringing anyone here anytime soon. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Over her shoulder she hears, “Watson, that is not a post-orgasmic walk! Watson!”

 

* * *

 

  
Joan’s guilt grows in the following weeks. It steadily builds in her chest, more pressure on her heart every day. Some days it’s for her behavior around Moriarty. Other days, it screams deceit at her for holding back from Sherlock. Joan tries to lock it down and hold it back so nothing seems out of the ordinary but inside, it tears away at her. August is nearing its end when Joan wakes one morning to a strong sense of remorse. She finds it unfair to the start a day that way, but her body doesn’t seem to care. Every limb is heavy, resistant as she pulls herself out of bed.

_You have to tell him_ , her mind whispers as she’s brushing her teeth.

_It could cause him to relapse_ , she argues.

_That wouldn’t solve anything. It would only make you disappointed in him and that’s the last thing he wants._

Starting on her breakfast, Joan tells herself that it would solve things, actually. If she told Sherlock and his reaction was to run to heroin, she would cut all ties with Moriarty and stay by Sherlock’s side until he recovered. Right?

Or would she chastise him for daring to touch the drug again after all of the work they had put into his sobriety? Tell him he’s being childish and she’s an adult who can make her own decisions about who she allows in her life. Even if that person is the criminal formerly known as Irene Adler.

Joan knows there’s a difference between the woman she meets and the woman Sherlock fell in love with. They’re entirely different people, created by someone who loves to play games and weave webs. Sherlock must know this as well, so could he really be upset if Joan becomes acquainted with Moriarty? She shares a body with Irene Adler, but not much else.

Even through this argument with herself, Joan knows that envy would not be the issue with Sherlock. It would be betrayal. Sherlock would not scorn Joan for seeing a woman he once loved, but associating with a dangerous, backstabbing criminal is something else entirely.

Suddenly sick to her stomach, Joan throws her food away. She heads to the sitting room and looks around, desperate for a distraction. They’ve just recently finished a case and Sherlock is catching up on his sleep. When nothing catches her eye, Joan decides to call her friend, Hannah. After a little complaining and a lot of persuading on Hannah’s side, they agree to meet a club later on. It’s certainly not Joan’s favorite type of place to go but she can use the company and she’s rather desperate.

She spends the rest of her morning and afternoon in her room, reading one of Sherlock’s appointed books. Her eyes fly across the pages, barely absorbing the information as her mind is, as always, preoccupied. Joan feels a bit like she’s next in line for a roller coaster, a heavy weight in her gut. Several times she finds herself pushing the book aside so she can lie on her back and stare at the ceiling. It seems she was doomed from the moment she woke up, stuck with guilt that just won’t go away.

By the time she walks out of the brownstone, she’s restless and more tired than she should be. She takes her cab in silence and tries to focus on people as they pass by, deducing what she can from what Sherlock has taught her. It helps keep her mind busy until she arrives at the club. A small wave of relief washes over her as she takes in the neon signs. This will be good. Cathartic.

Joan isn’t surprised to find it crowded inside. Loud bass music hits her ears and makes her hyper-aware of her heartbeat. The heavy scents of sweat and alcohol mix in the air and Joan is grateful for her sleeveless dress in the humid atmosphere. Pushing her way through the throng of people, she makes her way to the bar to wait for her friend to arrive. With a drink in her hand, Joan scans the crowd and smiles to herself. It’s mostly young people, grinding on each other and laughing like it’s the best night of their lives. She remembers that feeling. When the world was in her hands and everything was possible. She throws back her glass.

Ten minutes pass and Joan glances at her watch twice. Knowing Hannah, she’ll be at least another ten. Joan orders a second drink and settles down on one of the bar stools. The sound of arguing draws her attention to a corner on her right where a young couple stands. Joan can’t make out the words over the music, but it’s obvious that the woman is unhappy. Her arms are crossed and she glares daggers at her partner.

Joan catches the word ‘betrayed’ and swallows thickly, reminded of why she’s here in the first place. A pathetic attempt at getting Moriarty and Sherlock off of her mind so she can be guilt free for a few hours. Her fingers tighten around her glass and she turns to rest her elbows on the counter of the bar, not wanting to watch the couple any longer.

“Another please,” she nods to the bartender and pulls out her phone to shoot Hannah a quick text.

She loses time watching the people. She tries to deduce a few but it only makes her think of Sherlock so she gives up and turns her back to the dance floor. The song changes and blue and red strobe lights swing across the room. As the beat picks up, the crowd jumps around carelessly and someone is pushed right into Joan.

“Oof – sorry!” A drunk giggle apologizes and Joan gives the man a polite smile, ignoring the slight pain in her lower back.

“It’s all right.”

He shakes shaggy black bangs away from his eyes and holds out his hand, beaming at her. “Thomas.” He can’t be more than twenty-two years old but he towers over her.

Joan glances at his hand and notices just how sweaty he is, opting out on the handshake. “Joan,” she responds, accepting her new drink from the bartender.

Thomas sits down next to her, apparently not planning on leaving anytime soon. “Why aren’t you dancing, Joan?”

Her watch tells her Hannah is almost forty minutes late and Joan sighs into her drink, ignoring the burn in her throat. “I’m not really the dancing type.”

He makes a disapproving sound and turns to face the crowd, leaning back against the counter. “Maybe you just need the right partner.” At Joan’s unimpressed look, he laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t mean me. You just need someone who helps you let loose.”

“Well,” she pauses to take a sip from her glass, “I’m waiting for a friend.” Who is incredibly late and really getting on Joan’s last nerve, if she’s honest with herself. It was Hannah’s idea in the first place and it’s something Joan really needs tonight.

Thomas raises an eyebrow at her, looking skeptical. “Uh-huh,” he says. “A friend.”

Joan frowns over her glass. “Yes, a friend.”

“Oh sweetie.” He pats her bare shoulder, leaving a sweaty handprint. “Looks like you got stood up.”

Joan gapes at him. “Excuse me? You don’t even know how long I’ve been here. For all you know, I’m early.” She waves at the bartender before turning her attention back to Thomas. “And it’s not a date.”

“All right, all right.”

Another song change, this one with male vocals. His voice sounds nice and Joan finds herself enjoying the music for once. She mimics Thomas’ position against the counter and they sit in silence for some time, watching people grind and flail around the dance floor.

Head swaying slightly to the beat, Joan feels the alcohol in her system. The flashing lights are pleasant and the deep bass no longer causes her to wince. For the first time in weeks, she isn’t thinking of criminals or detectives and a feeling of joy washes over her. Stupid geniuses and their games and deductions.

Joan turns to Thomas and nudges him with her elbow. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

He shrugs, bangs falling over his eyes again. “You looked lonely. Thought you could use some company.”

Joan licks her lips, thinking this over. “Did you bump into me on purpose?”

“No,” Thomas laughs and gives her an apologetic smile. “That was an accident but then I noticed you were alone.”

“Do you often keep older women company in clubs?”

His smile is softer this time and it causes an uncomfortable twist in Joan’s chest. “I don’t. You just seemed to need it.” Thomas pulls his phone out and shows her the time. “Still think your friend is coming?”

Joan finishes her drink and pushes the glass away. “I don’t know,” she grumbles. “I should call her.”

“Go for it,” he gestures to the door of the club. “Make sure she can hear you though. I’ll be here.”

Joan nods, his kindness not going unnoticed. She clutches her phone tightly in her hand as she makes her way outside, being pushed this way and that more than once. Once fresh air hits her face, she takes a deep breath of relief. She selects Hannah’s name in her contacts and waits.

“Hello?” Hannah picks up on the third ring.

“Hannah? Where the hell are you?”

“Joan? Oh shit. I completely forgot!” Hannah sighs heavily.

Joan closes her eyes and tries not to feel too disappointed. “How could you forget? It was just a few hours ago.”

“I know, Joanie, I’m sorry. Something came up and I just got busy. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Joan assures her. “Are you?”

There’s some rustling on the line before Hannah answers. “Yes, no emergency or anything. I’m sorry, I know how much you were looking forward to this.”

“Please. You know I don’t dance.”

Hannah laughs and Joan finds herself smiling. “Try to enjoy yourself, Joan. Stay out all night, do something irresponsible.”

Joan rolls her eyes but understands what Hannah’s trying to say. “I will. Goodnight, Hannah.”

“Goodnight!”

Joan takes a minute to enjoy the night sky before she heads back inside. As promised, Thomas is waiting for her at the bar. He takes one look at her face and frowns.

“Not coming, then?”

She shakes her head but gives him a smile. “I’ll be fine, though. Go dance with your friends.”

He waves his hand dismissively, scooting closer to her. “They don’t even know I’m gone. Let’s talk instead.”

And this is how Joan finds herself with another drink in her hand, complaining to a complete stranger about her problems. She tells him of Sherlock’s past with Moriarty and her current predicament. She explains her guilt and her unease at feeling comfortable with the woman. Of course she doesn’t mention the fact that Moriarty isn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen or that her partner is nothing short of a genius.

“I just think,” she squeezes her eyes shut. “I just think I should tell him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Thomas looks at her with wide eyes. “You absolutely should not. It’s none of his business anyway. The past is the past and has nothing to do with who you choose to spend your time with.”

“S’not that easy.”

Not when there are so many other factors in play. One wrong word to Moriarty could end everything for both Joan and Sherlock. She feels a bit like she’s walking on a tightrope, careful not to lean too much one way or the other. She closes her eyes and all she sees is blonde hair.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” Joan murmurs, realizing just how true that is as she says it. She feels pathetic, unable to control her emotions. It’s like being a teenager all over again. She tips back her glass.

“Have you told her that?” Thomas asks softly.

Joan almost chokes on her drink. She swallows quickly, wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, and turns to face him. Thomas’ eyebrows are raised, a hint of a smile on his lips. He’s so young and curious and Joan just can’t possibly explain everything to him.

“You don’t understand,” she smiles crookedly, still finding the question hilarious.

He folds his arms and tilts his head. “Then help me understand.”

Joan throws her arms up but they feel too heavy and they drop to her sides. “I can’t! You would have to know them.” She gestures vaguely with one hand. “My friends.”

Thomas licks his lips and nods once. “All right, then. Tell me about David. Why can’t you tell him this?”

Joan blinks, searching her head. She doesn’t know anyone named David, does she? David… Oh! She changed their names, of course. This sends her into a fit of giggles and her head is positively buzzing by the time she can breathe again.

“David’s complicated,” she slurs. “He has a very complex past with her and I know all about it. There were lots of hurt feelings involved. Not just regular old heartbreak. I’m talking _blood_ and _guts_ here.” Joan speaks as clearly and seriously as she can, making sure to emphasize the right words.

“Would this ruin your friendship?”

Joan squints at Thomas. “We’re more like partners. But yes, I think so.” She turns to look at the crowd and lights dance across her vision. Her brain fuzzy, her muscles relaxed, she snorts at the thought of Sherlock and her having a normal friendship.

“Joan?” Thomas questions.

Her skull weighs far too much as she swings it to face him again. “It’s nothing. Just – the whole thing seems childish when you really look at it, you know? Grown adults keeping so many secrets from each other. Over what, infatuation?”

“Infatuation, Joan, really?”

It takes her brain a few seconds to register that this voice doesn’t belong to Thomas. A familiar shiver runs up her spine as she looks behind her. The brown hair is all wrong but Joan could pick those blue eyes out anywhere.

“Moriarty,” she sighs. “What are you doing here?”

“Wait, Moriarty?” Thomas pipes up. “The one you were talking about?”

Joan narrows her eyes at him. “I never said her name.”

He grimaces, glancing between the two women. “You did, actually. It was Susie at first but you were slipping near the end there.”

“Oh for God’s – Susie? Really, Joan?” Moriarty looks like a disappointed parent.

Laughter bubbles up in Joan’s throat and she tries to stop it, honestly, but it escapes anyway. She laughs and laughs, looking from Moriarty to Thomas and back, laughing harder at their faces. Thomas appears to be thoroughly confused while Moriarty wears an odd mix of fondness and apprehension.

Joan continues to snicker as the blonde-now-brunette turns her focus to Thomas.

“Are you drunk?” She asks the boy.

Thomas shrugs halfheartedly.

“No? Not enough then. Here,” she waves the bartender over and whispers something to him. He nods and Moriarty smiles at Thomas. “Have the rest of your drinks for the evening on me. Please do drink as much as you’d like.” As she finishes speaking, a large glass is placed in front of Thomas.

He blinks in surprise before smiling back. “Hey, thanks! You hear that, Joan? She’s a good one. Forget all of your troubles and just go for it. Fuck David.” He pats Joan’s hand fondly and runs off into the crowd with his drink, yelling for his friends.

Moriarty quirks an eyebrow. “David?”

Joan sighs heavily and shakes her head, not even bothering to comment. The very source of her stress and remorse is standing not three feet from her. No amount of alcohol could prepare her for dealing with this tonight. Not here. Not now. She wants to be angry. She opens her mouth to seethe some sarcastic comment about her appearance.

“Brown,” is all that comes out.

Moriarty laughs and twirls one brunette lock around her finger. “I was undercover,” she whispers conspiratorially. “It’s just a wig.”

“Good.” Joan doesn’t mean to say it. Moriarty sees that but to Joan’s relief, she doesn’t comment. She just walks around to take Thomas’ seat, folding her hands on the counter.

“What was the purpose of that? Buying him drinks.” Joan asks.

“If he drinks enough, he’ll hopefully forget my name by morning.”

Joan searches for Thomas in the throng of people. “And if he doesn’t?”

Moriarty just tilts her head and regards Joan for a few moments. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Joan.”

It’s the last place Joan expected to see Moriarty as well. Now here she is with glassy, bloodshot eyes that peel through Joan’s skin and find the secrets written in her DNA. If she was sober, she would leave the club without a second thought. She would put as much distance between herself and the criminal as possible. But she’s not and she won’t.

“Were you drinking undercover?” she asks, sliding her finger through a bead of condensation on the counter.

Moriarty nods.

“Care to continue?”

A slow small appears on the woman’s face and she nods once more.

 

An hour and a couple drinks later, the two women are drunk through and through. The speakers in the club pulse with electronic music and Moriarty is aggressively tapping one foot against the ground, rocking back and forth on her stool. Joan licks her lips and watches the woman through heavy-lidded eyes. Before she realizes what she is doing, she has Moriarty’s wrist in her grip and is dragging her out onto the dance floor.

“Are we dancing, Joan?” Moriarty looks down at her curiously and her eyes are so bright and blue that Joan thinks she could drown in them.

“We are,” she answers with a lopsided smile. The song is easy to dance to and her hips sway to the rhythm. Joan’s eyes flutter shut and she raises her head to shake her hair free from her shoulders. People surround her on every side and it’s slightly suffocating but she concentrates on the thrumming energy in the room and the loud synthesizer in her ears.

A warm hand is placed on Joan’s hip and she opens her eyes to find Moriarty looking at the ground. She’s bobbing her head back and forth and slowly bringing herself closer and closer as she dances. Their feet bump together and the brunette raises her eyes. When she finds Joan looking at her, she smiles and it’s so pure and genuine that Joan’s heart skips a beat.

A second tentative hand on Joan’s other hip and their pelvises accidentally brush together as they move. A bead of sweat is gathered at Moriarty’s temple and Joan reaches up to wipe it away. Somehow her fingers end up threading through the soft hair of the wig and cupping the back of the woman’s neck.

The crowd is constantly pushing and pulling around them and they end up pressed together within a few minutes. Moriarty’s arms snake around Joan’s waist, hands splayed on her lower back. They move fluidly, perfectly in synch with one another. Their eyes close and they shift ever closer, guided by the beat and the surrounding dancers.

Joan isn’t sure when their foreheads first touch but it feels so ordinary that she doesn’t pull away. Moriarty’s hips meet hers and goosebumps cover her flesh. She feels hot breath on her face and slowly opens her eyes to look into the criminal’s.

She can’t read her expression, not this close, but there’s something raw and vulnerable about the way Moriarty’s lips are parted as she breathes heavily from the movements. Her fingertips gently press into Joan’s back and those blue eyes slip closed again.

Joan’s arms are wrapped around Moriarty’s neck and she feels their skin slide together, wet from perspiration. It’s entirely more erotic than it ought to be. Dark, unsure thoughts have filed themselves away in her mind and all she feels is loose, comfortable, and confident. It may be the alcohol or it may be what was coming all along but Joan closes the gap and presses her lips to Moriarty’s.

There’s only a two-second beat before the brunette responds. She pulls Joan flush against her, one hand sliding higher up Joan’s back. Their lips part and meet again and Joan melts into the sensation. Moriarty’s lips are smooth and carry a hint of cherry. She’s gentle in her kiss, applying very little pressure and allowing Joan to dictate what happens. Joan traces her tongue along the brunette’s lower lip and is delighted when the woman opens her mouth and their tongues meet.

The music picks up, increasing in bass and speed. Joan places one hand on the back of Moriarty’s head and deepens the kiss, not missing the small sigh that is exhaled into her mouth. Their tongues glide together with Moriarty interspersing teasing flicks. A fresh wave of heat washes over Joan and her veins fill with desperation.

She curls her fingers in Moriarty’s hair and pulls back to nibble on her bottom lip. The response she gets sends arousal through her body as the woman releases Joan and grabs her face instead. Warm palms on her warmer cheeks and Moriarty taking control of the kiss send Joan falling into oblivion. Her heart pounding painfully hard in her chest, she moans into the brunette’s mouth, her brain incapable of forming a single thought.

They break apart a moment later but stay pressed close, sharing each other’s breath. Moriarty’s pupils are blown and Joan is sure hers are too by the way the woman looks at her. Without exchanging any words, they meet in another bruising kiss, all teeth and tongues. Trying to assure she stays locked with Moriarty’s body, Joan attempts to move them somewhere more private. They shuffle through the crowd, stopping now and then to firmly hold one another and ravage each others mouths. When Joan’s back hits a solid surface, she pulls away and looks behind her to find the women’s bathroom. Moriarty glances up at the door and back at Joan with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“God yes,” she breathes before pushing Joan inside.

Though muffled in the bathroom, the music still vibrates through the walls and Joan feels it in her bones. All she can hear though, is the smack of their lips meeting and pulling apart and the heavy breathing in between. Then there’s a small click and she realizes the criminal has locked the door behind them. She isn’t sure if it’s panic or excitement that sends adrenaline through her body but at this point in time, she couldn’t care less. Moriarty pushes her against the wall and pulls away from her mouth only to trail kisses down her neck. Joan exhales shakily, head falling back at the sensation of teeth and tongue on her sensitive skin.

With a steady surface behind her, Joan is able to feel the full sensation of Moriarty’s pelvis against hers. She moans involuntarily, hands automatically grabbing the woman’s ass and tugging her closer. Moriarty licks a broad stripe up Joan’s throat and places a messy kiss on her mouth before leaning back to really look at her.

“Joan.”

There are a hundred different questions and conversations in those eyes and Joan wants none of them right now. She swallows thickly and shakes her head ever so slightly to convey that talking is not something she wants to do at the moment. Yes, she’s sure. The criminal licks her lips and nods once before reattaching her mouth to Joan’s neck. She leaves a series of small bites that almost distract Joan as hands begin sliding up her thighs.

Her dress is lifted and Moriarty is quick to hook a finger in the band of her panties. She pauses, silently asking Joan once more if this is okay. Joan thrusts her hips upward in response, groaning as hot fingers meet slick flesh.

“You’re soaking,” Moriarty breathes in her ear. Joan thinks she might be on fire.

Alcohol and arousal buzz through her, along with the thumping of the music behind the wall. There is no thought and no consequence in this moment. No grumpy detective or shady villain. There are only two fingers pressed inside her and teeth on her carotid.

“Oh!” Joan gasps and her hands stutter along Moriarty’s body as she’s unsure where to put them. She settles on the woman’s arm as a spike of pleasure hits her and her eyes fall closed. Moriarty crooks her finger, hitting the sweetest spot and sending a string of curses from Joan’s mouth.

“More?” The woman asks, her breath hot on Joan’s cheek.

“Yes, please. Oh God.” Joan feels herself sinking down the wall before an arm wraps around her. The knowledge that Moriarty is simultaneously the person breaking her down and holding her up would cause her to laugh in normal circumstances but now it only serves to make her moan.

Moriarty’s fingers move skillfully in and out of Joan, twisting and bending at all the right moments. She pumps them smoothly, stopping to scissor them every few thrusts. Joan’s thighs are trembling and she can feel her orgasm being pulled closer and closer with every masterful flick of Moriarty’s hand. Watching that arm move quickly as she thrusts her hand inside Joan, it’s enough to stop Joan’s heart.

Sweat drips down the brunette’s neck and Joan leans forward to lick it off. Noticing the hitch in Moriarty’s breath, she continues kissing and licking at that spot for a while before making her way to the woman’s mouth. Their lips overlap with Moriarty’s bottom one in the middle. It all fits so perfectly in a way that Joan doesn’t want to think about. She can’t think about.

“Harder. Oh God, harder.” She gasps against Moriarty’s mouth as the criminal complies, pumping her fingers faster and harder into Joan. The air is filled with panting breaths and the obscene wet sound of their sex. It’s overwhelming to Joan and she kisses Moriarty as if her life depends on it. She has no oxygen in her lungs and the brunette is her only source.

“Come for me, Joan.” Moriarty whispers, her voice hoarse and urgent. She slides one more finger inside and tightens her grip on Joan to hold her closer. “Come for me.”

“Oh fuck,” Joan groans. She can’t handle that strong, sweet accent coming from those lips, kissed red and swollen. Without slowing her ministrations, Moriarty leans back and locks eyes with Joan. There’s something in there that Joan can’t figure out. An unnamed emotion that tugs at her heart. Her entire body tenses and she’s filled with a sudden apprehension as the criminal looks at her like that. With a crook of her fingers, Moriarty has her coming.

Joan cries out, digging her nails into the woman’s arm as her orgasm hits her in waves. Her back arches off the wall and she feels her muscles clench around Moriarty’s digits. The criminal holds her through it until her body has relaxed save for a few small shivers. She pulls her hand away, fixes Joan’s dress, and leans in to kiss her once more. It’s quick but not quite chaste.

“That was gorgeous,” she breathes against Joan’s mouth.

Joan finds she can’t form any words so she simply blinks. Moriarty smirks, seeming to understand her lack of brain function. She fixes her own clothing and gives Joan one last glance before unlocking the door and returning to the club.

Joan remains plastered to the wall. She knows she can’t yet understand the enormity of what she’s just done, not with so much alcohol in her system. She’ll feel the full weight of it tomorrow and she can gleefully add it to her pile of guilt. For now, it doesn’t matter. She feels satisfied and delightful and instead of fighting the urge, she laughs.


	8. Contemplate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. HOLY LONG TIME. Life happened, as it does. I promise this project is not abandoned and I plan on carrying it out until its end! Kudos to my beta, Kelly, for helping me every time I get stuck. Thank you all for your patience and as always, you can reach me on [Tumblr](http://romanohva.tumblr.com)! :)

Hot breath on her shoulder, the pressure of fingers on her hipbones. Joan feels the tickle of sweat running down her back. There are soft lips on her stomach and a hand caressing her inner thigh. Lifting her head from her pillow, she glances down her body to find a mess of blonde hair. Bright eyes appear and seem to laugh at her.

Moriarty crawls up her frame and their bodies move together, languid and soft. A small kiss to Joan's breast, her neck, her jaw. The press of a thigh between hers and the quietest hitch of breath in her ear. A warm sensation that travels the length of her body and sends a shiver down her spine.

There is nothing outside of this feeling and this moment. Every nerve in her body is singing in delight as hands and tongue skirt across her skin. Joan can only look into those blue eyes and hold on as every breath comes faster and harder. She feels Moriarty everywhere, on top of and inside her. Her mouth, her thighs, her very bones. Worst of all, she's in her head.

Every thought and every emotion boils down to this woman. She takes Joan higher than she's ever been before and also pushes her to the darkest corners of her mind. Her heart is pounding in fear and pleasure. She can't look away. She can't stop herself from chasing every touch and hanging on to every word. Diving headfirst into the danger and clinging to Moriarty as she falls.

And Joan falls fast. Breath knocked out of her, her nails dig into the soft flesh of Moriarty's shoulders. The woman's lips are moving but Joan can't hear a thing. She's in ecstasy, not a worried thought in her head. There is only pure sensation, a burst of energy that reaches the crown of her head and the tips of her toes.

What goes up must come down and Joan lands in a comfortable mixture of satisfaction and relaxation. It's a warm, soft feeling that leads to trust. Trust in the arms of the least likely person. Here Joan is, naked and vulnerable and at the mercy of Moriarty. It should instill her with fear or an uncomfortable twist in her gut at least. Instead, she opens her eyes to find the woman smiling softly at her.

"All right?" She asks quietly.

Joan nods, her heart thudding painfully in her chest at an emotion she cannot - will not - name.

"Good," Moriarty whispers. "I'm not so horrible, am I?" She brushes a piece of hair away from Joan's forehead. Her voice is soft and lacks its usual smugness. A crease appears between her brows, the beginnings of a frown.

Joan swallows thickly. In this moment, the woman looks innocent. She appears kind and loving and like she has never so much as stepped on an insect. She looks hurt, confused, and wrongly accused. The victim instead of the suspect.

"I don't want to talk about this," Joan tells her.

Moriarty looks at her for a long moment before nodding. Never taking her eyes off of Joan's, her hand slides down her side and pauses on her hip. She waits, silently asking Joan's approval. It's an offer of more pleasure, more time to forget who they are and get lost in something else. So Joan gives her permission and spreads her thighs to accept Moriarty's fingers pressing into her core once again.

 

* * *

 

A heavy pounding wakes Joan with a groan and a wince. She sits halfway up in bed to glare at her closed bedroom door. The sound repeats in three hard knocks and then a pause before two more. Judging from the volume, it must be coming from downstairs.

"Sherlock," she sighs in exasperation.

It takes her a moment to get to her feet. The room isn't spinning quite as much as she expected but it's enough to turn her stomach. Licking her dry lips, she stumbles down the hall and into the bathroom. The light streaking through the window is far too bright and Joan is hit with a fresh wave of sharp pain in her temples.

Bracing her hands on the sink, she looks at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is wild around her shoulders, her eyes are heavy-lidded, and her face is pale. She begins to groan and quickly realizes the action is turning into something else entirely. Joan barely makes it to the toilet before she gags and empties the contents of her stomach.

She presses her cheek to the cool porcelain and squeezes her eyes shut so she doesn't have to witness the spinning room. She really should not have had so much to drink last night. What was she thinking?

There are flashes of strobe lights behind her eyelids as she recalls the humid nightclub. The bartender sliding her drink after drink as she talked to... What was his name? She wouldn't need to remember if only Hannah had showed up like she was supposed to.

Shifting from one uncomfortable position to the next on the floor, Joan feels a slight ache between her thighs. Her eyes blink open as she tries to pinpoint the cause. She stretches one leg out and the moment she does, there's the memory of lips and tongue and fingers pressing just right.

Joan retches, knuckles turning white as she grips the toilet seat.

"Oh no," she gasps between painful spasms. "Oh no, no, no."

While her brain helpfully supplies the image of silky brown hair, Joan remembers those cold blue eyes holding her gaze as her body was pulled over the edge. The eyes that belong to one Jamie Moriarty, criminal extraordinaire.

Joan sinks against the wall and sighs heavily. The thought of what she did is so surreal, she has to wonder if it was all her dream. She obviously did have a lot to drink but her mind could have completely made up Moriarty's appearance once she was home and dozing off in bed. That's a likely explanation, isn't it? It certainly wouldn't be the first time her dreams were infected by the woman's presence. A disease snaking through her system and latching on until every dream of Moriarty bleeds through to her every waking thought.

But no. The physical evidence speaks for itself as Joan recalls the somewhat awkward angle that resulted in her slight discomfort.

When Joan is confident that there's nothing left in her stomach to bring back up, she brushes her teeth and deems herself ready to brave the stairs and whatever Sherlock is up to below. Hand tight on the railing, she valiantly ignores the queasiness as the main floor rushes up to meet her much quicker than it ought to.

Another loud bang sounds as she makes her way to the kitchen. With a wince, she realizes that's where her partner has decided to conduct his experiment, whatever it may be. Poking her head around the corner, she finds Sherlock wearing a medical mask and holding a hammer. On the table, fragments of faded pink ceramic lie beside something broken.

Joan squints at the object. "Is that a piggy bank?"

"Excellent observation, Watson. I do apologize for the noise but it's very important that I get this done within the next," he checks his watch, "two hours."

It's too early in her hangover for Joan to even ask. She waves dismissively and heads for the coffee, stomach lurching at the fleeting thought of breakfast. The feeling makes her pause. Joan knows all too well that there's a fine line between excitement and discomfort. The nausea swirls through her stomach the same way thrill does and thus she finds herself thinking of Moriarty.

How could she let herself do something like that? It was bad enough when she thought she was becoming friendly with the woman. Now this - this is a whole new level that Joan wasn't even remotely prepared for.

The worst part, Joan realizes as she sips her coffee, is that she's surprisingly unsurprised by it. This is followed by a lack of regret that has her questioning the sanity of her own mind. She can't fight what she feels, though, and she especially can't fight what isn't there.

She's reminded of early dreams where Moriarty was everywhere. The pigment in the paint, the spider on the wall, the predator lurking in the shadows. Funny how that only tips Joan further over the already murky line of reasonable and too far. Where was that line in the club, she wonders. The bar, the dance floor, or pressed up against the bathroom wall?

Joan shifts at the small throb between her legs. A small part of her is incredibly concerned by her seeming nonchalance over the act. She did make out with Moriarty and then let her pull an earth-shattering orgasm from her. Still, she finds herself fighting the twitch of her lips over her mug. Surely there are worse things in the world.

Sherlock, who Joan almost forgot was there, sets his hammer down with a loud sigh before turning to her. "Gregson wishes for us to go down to the precinct."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Joan frowns.

He quirks an eyebrow, obviously feeling he doesn't need to explain himself. "It's no hurry. The aspirin is behind the toaster should you require it." Sherlock pulls his mask off and gives her a small smile. "Whenever you're ready."

Before they leave, Joan finds herself at the computer, staring at her email inbox. The cursor rests over the compose button, where it has been for the past twenty minutes. Should she send something to Moriarty? Maybe confront the situation and explicitly state that it’s to be forgotten? Does Moriarty remember the events as vividly as Joan does? There’s no doubt in her mind.

With a sigh, she exits out of her email. Surely after last night, Moriarty will contact her. Joan can almost hear the self-satisfied tone of her voice. Of course she will want to see Joan as soon as possible.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks pass without word from Moriarty. No surprise visit in the night, no email, not even a creepy crone watching her in the street. Joan finds it odd after what happened but she’s so busy with detective work that she doesn’t have much attention to spare. Her partner is spouting off theories and shutting them down before Joan even has a chance to give her opinion. She watches him from the couch, absentmindedly toying with the hem of her dress. Sherlock’s been at it for hours now, this pacing back and forth, and she’s bored of it, retreating into her own thoughts and ignoring his mumbled speech.

It’s not that the case isn’t important to Joan. It just seems… bland. To think that she would ever consider a murder bland almost makes her laugh. When Sherlock had dragged her to the crime scene, she waited with baited breath for the plot twist that never came. It was a simple homicide, complete with evidence of a break-in and a valid motive. The suspect was in custody and cooperating, according to Bell.

There’s obviously something Sherlock isn’t telling her, but she’s tired of asking. If he wants to play this mystery game by himself, he’s welcome to. It’s not like Joan can be expected to help when he won’t even clue her in.

So she sits and keeps her eyes trained on his moving form while her thoughts drift to Moriarty. After waiting with nervous anticipation for some sort of contact, she can’t help but feel a small stab of disappointment. She had been so prepared to confront Moriarty and insist that the night in the club was a mistake. She expected so much teasing and embarrassment and to have nothing at all feels oddly discomforting.

Curiosity eventually gets the better of her and she emails Moriarty herself. Joan keeps it short and to-the-point, stating that they’re late for their monthly meeting and the quiet is making her nervous. It should be enough to satisfy the criminal, letting her know she still has the ability to inflict fear in Joan. That is what she wants, isn’t it?

Joan never gets a response but she does get a ride. Exiting a coffee shop, she’s a few feet down the sidewalk when a sleek, black car pulls up beside her. Her heart begins to pound in her chest. The window rolls down and a man peers at her over his sunglasses.

“Boss wants to see you.” His voice is gruff.

Joan grips her coffee cup tighter and considers her feelings.

Apprehension? Check.

Interest? Check.

Excitement? Definitely.

She enters the backseat of the car and settles into the cool, leather seats. The driver says nothing and Joan doesn’t try for conversation. She studies him instead, trying to gather what information she can from his appearance. He’s bald and looks to be middle-aged. There's a small scar on the back of his right hand but Joan is too far away to see what it may have been caused by. Other than this, there's nothing that sticks out about him and she looks out the window for the remainder of the drive.

When the car comes to a stop outside of a well-known building, Joan scoffs. “Seriously? A hotel?”

Does Moriarty think that because of what happened, Joan will just jump in bed with her? One mistake and the woman suddenly thinks she has the right to invite Joan into her hotel room.

The driver glances at the building and shrugs. “This is where she wants you.”

“I’m sure,” Joan mutters.

She doesn’t move to exit the car yet. Eyeing the hotel, she tries to think of any other reason Moriarty would request to see her here. Every previous meeting has been done in a public place and the idea of being completely alone with the woman sends a shiver down Joan's spine. A small trickle of fear that urges her to leave the taxi and chase the danger.

"Room 308," the driver calls out the window before pulling away from the curb.

Joan takes a deep breath as she enters the building. There's no point in stopping now. She just has to remember to hold her ground. Make sure Moriarty knows that there will be no repeat of their encounter in the club and try to gauge more of what the woman wants. As long as she doesn't get sidetracked or let down her defenses, Joan thinks she'll be fine.

When the elevator opens on the third floor, her stomach begins its nervous little dance that has become so common around the criminal. It also could have something to do with the fact that she's meeting someone in a private room. Especially when that someone recently had their hands and mouth all over Joan. She shakes her head to clear the thought and knocks on 308.

The door swings open and Joan speaks before Moriarty has a chance to. “A hotel room? Really?” She cocks an uninterested eyebrow but enters nonetheless.

“Is there a problem?” Moriarty asks after she’s shut the door, all innocence. She’s dressed casually, more for relaxation than business. Joan ignores the fact that she looks ridiculously comfortable.

“It’s pretty presumptuous of you.”

Moriarty blinks. “Oh, you thought!” She shakes her head, a small laugh escaping. “My dear Joan, I didn’t mean to give off that impression. I’m simply,“ she pauses, obviously looking for the right word, “between homes right now.”

Joan looks around the large suite. It does look lived in, small personal effects scattered around the various surfaces.

“I’m not even going to ask why.”

Moriarty gives her a sly smile over her shoulder as she walks into the kitchen area. “Can I get you a drink? I was just making tea.”

Joan picks the most comfortable looking over-sized chair to sit down in. “Please,” she responds. Then, “Why didn’t you set this up? Earlier, I mean.”

The blonde pours the drinks with a thoughtful look. “I assumed you’d want your space and time. Was I wrong?”

It’s so generous that Joan has a hard time believing it came from Moriarty’s mouth. The criminal has wanted nothing but Joan’s attention for the past few months, begging her to attend these meetings and spill every detail of her life. Now she claims she kept her distance in case Joan needed time to gather her thoughts and recover from the club?

“Oh. No, you weren’t wrong.”

Moriarty smiles. “We both had a lot to drink. It’s perfectly understandable that we ended up where we did.”

“It happened,” Joan says slowly, “but we’re not going to talk about it.”

There is such a small, subtle change of expression on Moriarty’s face that Joan wonders if she imagined it. Then a silence, somehow not uncomfortable, before the blonde nods earnestly. “Of course.”

Of course. She isn’t going to push. She isn’t going to tease Joan about it and smear her pride all over. Joan can’t help but feel that she’s speaking with a different woman. It certainly isn’t the one who chloroformed her in the middle of the night. The memory brings goosebumps to Joan’s flesh and she pushes it out of her mind.

Moriarty joins her in the living room and there’s a kindness in her eyes that is foreign and yet so familiar. She hands Joan her tea and settles on the couch opposite of her. “Are you doing well, Joan?”

All right. Small talk. She can do this. She can’t help but feel slightly unprepared, though, having expected to argue with Moriarty over their encounter. Joan clears her throat.

“We’re really busy with cases right now,” she tells her. “I won’t go into details but it’s been a lot of work. It’s good for him.” Joan spends the next twenty minutes telling her things that have been going on since they last spoke. Nothing too personal and nothing that would jeopardize her work with Sherlock.

Moriarty’s attention is focused on her the entire time, eyes never straying. She’s so carefree in her posture with the way she has her knees curled up to her chin, mug of tea cradled in her hands. She tucks her curled hair behind her ear and Joan notices a small streak of bright blue on her neck.

“Is that paint?” Joan touches the spot on her own neck and Moriarty mimics the motion.

“I thought I’d gotten rid of all that.” Her mouth twists into an amused smirk. “I did a little work on a piece this morning.”

There is that bright passion in her eyes that Joan remembers so well from their visit to the museum. After telling Moriarty so much about herself, she wants to hear more about this hobby of hers. “What do you like about art so much? Specifically paintings.”

“Such a loaded question, Joan,” Moriarty laughs. She appears deep in thought for a few moments before she answers. “They’re wonderful to me because they’re eternal. Each one is a beautiful moment or expression captured in time. There is a story in every piece and I find that no matter how similar artwork may appear, there are no two that are alike.”

“Photography does that too,” Joan points out before taking a sip of tea. “Captures a moment for eternity. Do you also enjoy that?”

“That’s true,” Moriarty hums, “but art is more alive. Sure a photographer can set up a perfect landscape and lightning to manufacture what they want but art moves. It breathes, carried on from one brushstroke to the next, constantly changing and evolving into something more.” Bright blue gaze locked on Joan, she continues. “You can sculpt and recreate art without destroying it. You no longer like the color of the trees or the birds in the sky, you can change that. You can’t do that with photographs.”

“You could, technically.”

“There are many things you can ‘technically’ do, Joan. The art that inspires me, the art that I love, has a life of its own. It relies on the painter to pour forth their emotion into every movement of their hands. If I take a photo of you, I can capture your expression. The look of happiness forever locked in a frame. It’s beautiful, but distant. If I paint you, however, I can come to know you. I learn the lines and angles that make up your face, the width of your smile and the amount of color in your eyes.”

Joan feels her face heat up at the intense concentration directed at her. “You don’t always paint people though. Do you feel the same way with landscapes or still life?”

“Of course,” Moriarty nods fiercely. “An object doesn’t need to be alive to carry life. There are words on every object, every structure, every sun-soaked field. You simply need to look and respect it. If you hurry to put one moment in a bottle, you will always lose something. It’s like cramming for a test, in a way. Spend every day looking at a sunrise and before long, you’ll find your hand knows how to create the image on paper as if it was an extension of the star itself.”

Joan can’t look away from the fire in Moriarty’s eyes; the life she sees there. “That’s beautiful.”

Moriarty looks somewhat startled for a second, like she forgot she was speaking out loud. A faint flush tints her cheeks but it disappears before Joan has a chance to memorize it.

“I’m not saying that paintings are more important or better than photography, don’t get me wrong. I respect all of those fields. I’m only saying why it is dearer to me. It’s different for everyone, of course.”

“I understand,” Joan smiles. And she does. She can feel the excitement pouring off the woman and drifting through the room. The charge of energy in the air that can only be born of pure passion for something or someone. It’s intoxicating, much like the adrenaline that follows her from case to case.

They sit in silence for some time, staring into their mugs or out the open window. Joan wants to say something to push their little talk along but she isn’t sure which way to go. She can keep the topic conversational or venture into some more dicey territory. Their previous outing in the rain had been so carefree and friendly and while Joan did genuinely enjoy that, she can’t deny that she misses the flirt of danger. The way she would prod at Moriarty and get narrowed eyes and a tongue-touched smile in return.

“What is it?” The woman’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. Joan raises an eyebrow. “You were smiling,” Moriarty explains.

“I was?”

“You were. What are you thinking about?”

Joan finishes off her tea and sets the mug on the table between them. “I was thinking that we’ve gotten rather friendly over the months.” It’s still the truth, even if her thoughts were more that she misses the venom.

Moriarty taps her fingers lightly against her leg as her eyes scan Joan’s face. “Is that what we are now, Joan? Friends?” Her tone is warm but a cool, calculating look follows.

Joan can tell that the woman is expecting a certain answer. That there definitely is a wrong way to respond to her question. She straightens her back and chooses her words very carefully.

“You’re not my friend.”

It’s simple and yet carries more than it appears. The two of them together do not particularly have a friendship. It’s a game, really, with one player who occasionally cheats. Yet they’re not enemies at this point in time. Maybe mere opponents on the battlefield who will only act against each other as a last resort. There’s still more to this statement, though. It’s a guess, a risk to say it at all, but Joan has a feeling it’s an answer that Moriarty will accept. She knows the woman has always viewed her in a different light.

The blonde gives her an appraising look, fingers gone still against her knee. The air in the room seems to thicken and while it does make Joan want to shift to break the tension, she resists the urge and keeps her eyes locked with Moriarty’s. She’s made her move and she won’t relax until the next play. She will sit and wait and let that gaze send chills through her body.

Finally, one corner of Moriarty’s mouth twitches upward. “Well played,” she says softly and something akin to relief floods Joan’s system. “You don’t see me as a friend but you also acknowledge that you are one to me. I hope you realize that this also means I don’t view you as some experiment, Joan.” A whisper now, “You are so much more than that.”

Joan doesn’t respond but she’s certain Moriarty can hear the loud drumming of her heart. Something doesn't feel right.

Moriarty sets her empty mug beside Joan’s on the table and stretches her legs out along the length of the couch. “I may not have been entirely honest with you in the beginning.”

Joan scoffs. “Should that surprise me?”

“No,” Moriarty admits, staring down at her lap. “But I told you that my interest in you was pure fascination. That I wanted to study you.”

“I recall.”

Moriarty sighs, lifting her eyes to Joan. “That wasn’t entirely true. Of course you’re fascinating but that wasn’t why I wanted this arrangement. The real reason is very basic. I simply like you, Joan.”

Joan blinks. “You like me?”

It’s beginning to feel like an awkward, childish conversation and it isn’t sitting well with her. While she hasn’t spent a ton of time around the woman yet, this feels extremely uncharacteristic and alarms are going off in Joan’s head. This is a ploy, it has to be. Some new persona that will be her equivalent of Sherlock’s Irene Adler.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Moriarty remarks with a smirk. “You believe I’m trying to trick you into a false sense of security by admitting that I find you to be extremely likeable.” She shrugs. “You can believe what you want, Joan, but this is the truth. I only wanted to get to know you in the hopes that we could be-“

“What?” Joan interrupts, irritation creeping under her skin. “Friends? You drugged me. You made me feel unsafe in my home and I have no idea how many of your people could be watching me at any given time. I don’t know how you were raised, but that is not how you make friends.”

The criminal sighs. “So I’m not perfect in this department.”

“You’re horrible in this department,” Joan corrects. “Probably in many others as well.”

Blue eyes narrow. “I seem to recall moments of you enjoying my company.”

“You know what?” Joan stands from the chair. “There are times when you seem like a decent human being. And yes, when that happens, I don’t have a problem being around that person. But who is she? How am I supposed to know what’s what with you? I’ve seen your most convincing act and I can assure you, I will not fall for another one.”

Moriarty doesn’t retaliate like Joan thought she would. Instead, she looks slightly taken aback. Joan uses the moment to barrel onward.

“Whatever this is,” she gestures between them with her hands, “this game you’re playing today as the crime boss who doesn’t know how to forge friendships. I don’t buy it for one second. You’re a brilliant, manipulative woman and you use that to your advantage every way that you can. All movements are calculated ahead of time so that they best benefit you. You’re no more socially handicapped than I am.”

Moriarty opens her mouth to speak but Joan interrupts her, unable to close the floodgates that have flung open inside her chest.

“The worst part is that I could grow to care for you. I could. But I have no idea who you are. You twist every talk between us to pull me in or push me away accordingly and I’m not someone who will take that. I’m not your employee or your underling or whatever you want to call those you see beneath you. It’s amazing what you can find when you treat people as your equal. You’ve never known how to do that, have you?”

Joan finally stops, forcing herself to take a breath and calm down. Her hands are balled into fists and she has to make a conscious effort to unclench them. She hasn’t felt frustration like this in months and the feeling is unwelcome, heavy and thick in her gut. She’s so angry that she can’t figure Moriarty out. Can’t figure out what she truly wants or how she’ll treat Joan next.

The blonde stands so that she’s no longer looking up at Joan. “When you do what I do, you have to play the game. You can never be too careful who you say what to or who knows your name. Of course I have multiple faces. It would be suicide to present myself to everyone in the same manner. So I give people the person they think they need. It’s how I survive.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Joan asks, crossing her arms. First the woman admits that she only wanted Joan as some 'buddy' and now she's spilling what appear to be secrets to her way of life?

“Because,” Moriarty sighs heavily, looking to the ceiling for a brief moment. “Because that’s not for you. That’s not what I want to do with you.” She smiles almost sadly. “You’re right about tonight. Of course you are. You’re cleverer than I originally gave you credit for.”

It doesn't feel like a compliment. It's like when an adult congratulates a young child on beating them in a game. Aren't you bright, you clever girl?

Joan breaks eye contact, not wanting Moriarty to see anything that may be showing on her face. She still feels angry but more than that, she's tired. Sick of going back and forth every time they see each other. If Joan could just get a handle of the rules. If she just knew what to expect.

“Look,” she says, rubbing at her forehead. “Just be straight with me. You wanting me around. Is that a part of the game? Is it all for a bigger scheme?”

Moriarty’s gaze softens and her voice is quieter when she answers. “No. I just want you in my life.” Her brow furrows like she wasn’t expecting to say that. In fact, she almost looks embarrassed.

Of course this sets off yet another chain reaction in Joan's mind. This is Moriarty in front of her, looking slightly ashamed. Moriarty, who kills without a second thought and probably runs the majority of the crime world in Europe. She's ruthless and conniving and she's baring her true feelings to Joan? It's too hard to believe, so Joan doesn't.

"You do understand that I have no reason to trust you, right?"

Moriarty's expression doesn't change. "Of course."

"So you also understand that what you just said means nothing to me." It isn't a question.

The blonde's mouth twists like she's fighting a smile. "Yes, I do."

And Joan couldn't name this feeling even if she wanted to. Like a locked joint that finally releases or a long, satisfying yawn after tiny, inadequate ones. Because she sees the mask on Moriarty's face, she does, but she also sees the look in her eyes. The one that tells her that maybe these moments with the woman aren't as false as they appear to be. That just maybe there is a chance that she truly cares for Joan beyond the puzzle she supplies.

And damned if Joan doesn't want to chase that possibility.

But she's had too many conflicting emotions for one afternoon. “Right. Well I don’t know what all of this was but,” she pauses to make sure she does in fact want to say this, “maybe we could see each other more frequently. A month is too long and by the time we’ve moved past the greetings and caught up, it’s time to go.”

“There are no time limits on these meetings, Joan.”

“There are, actually, for my sanity.”

Moriarty gives her a small smile and Joan returns it. She still feels thoroughly confused and she’s not quite sure if their argument solved anything but at least she said what she wanted to.

“All right, then. How about biweekly?” Moriarty suggests.

Joan shakes her head. “How about no specific schedule? Just no more than twice a week.”

Moriarty’s eyes widen, a sparkle in them that makes her look so much younger. “Really?”

Joan rolls her eyes with a small shrug. “Why not?” She begins to make her way to the door, slowly so the blonde can follow.

“Well I can think of many reasons why not.” Moriarty actually scratches at her head and Joan has to hold back a laugh.

“It’s confusing when you think you’re figuring someone out and they change on you, isn’t it?” she asks, hand on the doorknob.

Moriarty cocks her head, mouth quickly forming a smile. “You’ll be hearing from me soon, Joan Watson.”

Joan simply nods once and exits the hotel room. The door closes behind her but she doesn’t move, staring at the beige carpeting of the hallway. Her body is thrumming with energy as it usually does after meeting up with the woman but this time, it feels different. She’s just made another move and she isn’t entirely sure it was the move she meant to make. It’s beginning to feel like she also has different masks but they’re being used on herself as well. What is _her_ motive with Moriarty?

The thing is, if Joan’s plan is to not have a plan, that will make it all the harder for Moriarty to solve her. That is, if the woman was lying about lying. It’s probable that she honestly does view Joan as an experiment, regardless of the words that come out of her mouth.

You can sculpt and recreate art without destroying it. Moriarty’s own words.

Joan remembers flashes of her latest dream. Hands pressing and molding flesh. Red mouth biting down, sucking blood to the skin for splashes of color along her neck and chest. Fingers sliding in and out, across and around, until the blissful expression was perfect upon Joan’s face. She knows exactly what it all is.

An artist at work.


	9. Investigate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so, so patient. A HUGE thank you to my beta, Kelly. This would not have been possible without her. If you guys like Stucky and soulmate AUs, check out her [story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5167166/chapters/11902478) because it's freaking amazing.

The new non-schedule works rather well. Joan goes about her daily life working cases with Sherlock and when there’s some free time, she sends Moriarty an email. The blonde has yet to say she’s busy or ask Joan to meet another time. It should maybe cause Joan to wonder, but it doesn’t.

With their greetings shortened, they spend their meetings talking about anything that crosses their minds. Moriarty describes her favorite tea shop in London and Joan tells her all about the house she grew up in. They laugh like old friends, relaxed and amicable. Sometimes Joan forgets just who she’s sharing these moments with.

Of course there are still conversations that steer the other way. Words that fall like poison from the criminal’s lips. Joan’s blood turning cold. Quiet confessions of things Moriarty has done. Supposedly.

That’s what Joan has to remember. Not everything Moriarty says is true. In fact, it’s probably safe to assume that most of it isn’t. No matter how often the woman insists she is genuine with her, Joan knows to keep a wall up, to remember that people like Moriarty know how to get inside someone’s head and make them feel comfortable when they should feel terrified.

Still, the meetings continue and Joan looks forward to each and every one despite herself. If Moriarty ever decides to turn on her and Sherlock in the worst case scenario, at least Joan has information about her that could help. A few of the hotels that she stays at, the names of at least three drivers, the exact scent of jasmine that lingers about after she’s showered. Maybe that wouldn’t help but it’s in Joan’s brain regardless, buried deep under floorboards where she tries not to look.

A few months pass this way. Sometimes they eat out. Other times, they visit a park or just take a walk around the city. Other than the occasional hotel visit - “I’m between homes again, Joan.” - it’s always some place public and Joan feels relatively safe. It’s all working out rather well and she’s happy and energetic, eagerly getting out of bed each morning.

It’s a cold Thursday morning in December when one of their meetings is cut short by a text.

“It’s Sherlock,” Joan announces. “New case, I’ve got to go.”

She’s mentally cursing her partner though. Moriarty was just in the middle of a rather fascinating story that Joan had decided was a giant metaphor for the beauty to be found in murder.

“Of course,” Moriarty says, standing to walk her to the door. “I enjoyed our chat as always.”

Joan doesn’t tell the woman that she enjoyed it too. She simply gives her a small smile and leaves the building. Once outside in the blistery air, her thoughts remain on Moriarty. How many times have they seen each other over the past few months? She lost count a long time ago. There is no longer any reason to. She no longer carries a sense of dread and guilt around wherever she goes. Their talks have gone from one end of the spectrum to the other, seething accusations and crying with laughter. It has become raw and refreshing in a way that Joan hadn’t expected to enjoy so much.

Her phone beeps again. She glances at it to find another text from Sherlock, this time with an address.

It only takes a few minutes to get there by taxi and when she does, Bell is waiting outside, hands stuffed deep inside his pockets.

“Marcus,” Joan greets him politely. “I hope you haven’t been standing in the cold too long.”

“No worries,” he grins. “Sherlock and the captain are upstairs, come on.” He guides her into a large building, empty save for the police.

Joan is incredibly grateful to be back in a heated environment. She sheds her gloves and sticks them in her purse. As she follows Bell, he briefs her on the case.

“We got a call about an hour ago about a break-in but there’s no evidence. The only thing we’ve got to go on is a security guard’s word.”

“Camera footage?”

Bell shakes his head. “It’s all clear as far as I can tell but it’s being analyzed.”

They enter a sleek elevator and Marcus hits the button for the third floor.

“Now we’ve talked to the owner and he’s certain nothing has been taken. Your partner seems to disagree.”

“Of course he does,” Joan replies. “Is the owner still here?”

“Oh yeah. He’s with the captain and Sherlock now.” The elevator dings as they reach their destination. “Here we are.”

Bell gestures for Joan to go first and she steps out into a small hallway with only one door, already open. Through it, she catches Gregson’s eye.

“Joan,” he waves her over. Then, to someone she can’t see, “Sir, this is Joan Watson, another consultant of ours.”

“I don’t need another damn consultant,” a deep voice rumbles. “You people have already made it clear you don’t believe me.”

They sound familiar but she’s having trouble putting her finger on it. Joan enters the room but can’t see who it is as Sherlock’s back is blocking the view. He apparently hears her heels tapping on the floor though because he turns and takes a step to the side.

“Watson,” he says. “Meet Derek Varner. The Mayor of New York.”

 

* * *

 

The office is immaculate. Everything is dark cherry wood or rich brown leather. Joan squints as early morning light pours through a circular window on the eastern wall. She stifles a yawn, reminded of how quickly she had to pull herself from the comfort of her bed to get dressed and meet with Moriarty. Three inlaid bookcases make up the adjacent wall, straight and safe behind a layer of glass. It’s a beautiful work area to be certain, but a bit dull for her own personal taste.

Sherlock and Joan did a sweep of the area once she arrived but found nothing. Now in the center of the room, Sherlock and Captain Gregson continue to speak with the mayor.

“You’re quite sure nothing is missing?” Sherlock asks.

Varner nods. “I’ve looked over everything. Anything of worth is still here and nothing looks out of place.”

“Yet you’re sure there was a break-in?”

“I’m positive.”

Sherlock hums condescendingly, casting an eye around the room. Joan can see the irritation creeping up on the mayor’s face as he watches Sherlock. It’s something she’s familiar with and she makes her way over to intervene.

“Mr. Mayor, if I may ask, what is it that tells you someone was in here without permission?”

A small look of relief crosses his face as he switches his attention to her. “Look, I trust my guys. I have to. The security guard who called me, Anthony, was on patrol alone. He took a hard hit to the back of the head and tried to chase after someone but lost them. I believe him.”

Sherlock, bent over as he smells a plant on the desk, pipes up. “Of course it’s not like he can tell you he fell asleep on the job to cover up for a mistake.”

Varner narrows his eyes at him. “I’m beginning to regret asking for you personally, Mr. Holmes.”

“Anthony has mentioned his drinking problem, yes? By the look on your face, I’d say no. Consider-“

“Sherlock,” Joan interrupts.

Her partner simply raises a brow and turns back to what he was doing.

Bell puts himself between Sherlock and Joan. “The paramedics did look him over and confirmed it. He’s got a nasty bump on the back of his head and was taken to the hospital for an MRI.”

Joan nods and addresses the mayor once more. “Thank you for talking with us. We’ll take another look and let you know what we find.”

He grunts a response and with one last distasteful look at Sherlock, leaves the room with Marcus.

“Okay,” Joan sighs once she hears the elevator doors shut behind them. “What are you thinking?”

Sherlock turns to her. “Someone clearly broke into here. We simply need to find out why.”

“He seemed pretty adamant that nothing is missing.”

“He’s an idiot who can’t recognize his guards are drinking on the job.”

Joan rubs her temple. “Okay then what do you think they stole?”

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, finger on his chin. “I’ve no idea.”

Bell returns from escorting the mayor out, sliding his phone into his pocket. “The security footage was on a loop. Someone knew what they were doing.”

Joan casts her eyes around the room, looking for anything obviously out of place. It’s hard to do the first time around though. It’s not like the environment is familiar to her.

“Why would you break into the mayor’s private office only to steal nothing?” She asks.

Sherlock shrugs with one shoulder. “To prove you can.”

“Wouldn’t you leave the camera alone then?” Bell counters.

“Not if you want to prove you can do so while also not being a complete dimwit.”

“Yeah but-“ Marcus interrupts his own argument with a sigh. “He’s not listening anymore.”

Joan nods in agreement as she watches Sherlock begin his third sweep around the room. He sniffs at books and presses against seemingly random spots on the walls. Joan looks to Bell again and he just barely rolls his eyes.

To think she could still be sitting in a room with Moriarty. This hardly seems like a case Sherlock would be interested in. It’s not like he would take it for the credit of helping the mayor out.

Her partner stops just behind Varner’s desk and crouches down.

“Watson.”

Joan crosses the room. “Did you find something?”

Instead of answering, he asks his own question. “If you didn’t like the mayor very much but had no desire to directly steal any valuable items from him, how else could you wreak havoc?”

Joan only has to think for a moment. “Sabotage,” she suggests. “You could avoid direct confrontation and if you hate him enough, you care more about ruining his career than taking his stuff.”

“Precisely. Take a look at this.”

Joan rounds the desk and crouches beside Sherlock, studying the object in his hand.

“Collect all the dirty secrets and sell them to the highest bidder,” she murmurs.

“Indeed,” Sherlock whispers.

“What’ve you got?” Bell’s voice breaks through their quiet discovery.

Sherlock stands and gestures to the shredder. “The mayor was quite right in saying nothing was stolen. Rather, a gift was left.”

Bell immediately reaches for his walkie talkie. “A bomb?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I assure you. No, this is the lid to the shredder. And this thing right here scans documents as they are being destroyed.” Sherlock straightens his jacket and steps around Joan, heading for the door. “Get a list of the mayor’s known enemies and call me when you’ve narrowed it down. Watson?”

Joan notices Bell’s helpless look and shakes her head. “You go ahead. I’ll stay behind and help Marcus.”

“Suit yourself. I could use some alone time to think about this anyway.” He stares at her for a long moment and she can’t quite interpret his expression. Just as she’s about to ask, he leaves.

“Thanks,” Marcus interrupts her thoughts. “You know this is gonna take a while, right?

“I know,” she smiles, patting his arm lightly. “Let’s head to the precinct and get to work.”

 

* * *

 

Joan is exhausted by the time she gets back to the brownstone. Her vision is blurry from going over hundreds of names and background checks. The only thing going through her head is the warmth and comfort that sleep will bring.

Of course nothing is easy. She’s stopped by Sherlock the moment she steps inside.

“Did you and Bell discover anything?” He asks.

Joan shakes her head. “We’re looking at more tomorrow. There was just too much to go through in one night.”

Sherlock hums, hands slipping into his pockets. He gives her that long, lingering look again.

“You know, something has been bothering me about this case,” he says. “It’s why I took it even though it seemed so mundane.”

“Oh? The mayor asking for you personally had nothing to do with it?”

“Of course it had nothing to do with that. The reason I took the case, Watson, is because I believe it to be involved in something greater.”

Joan yawns against the back of her hand. “Like what?”

He pauses. “I haven’t figured that out yet but there are strings. Not many, but enough strings to connect and if I can only find more strings, maybe even one, I could form the web they make up. Probably not one, actually. Two strings could do. Three str-“

“Say strings again and I’m locking you out in the cold,” Joan warns.

“Fair enough.”

“Now are we going back out tonight or can we discuss the importance of strings tomorrow?”

Sherlock blinks, suddenly seeming to realize that she has only just arrived home, snow still fresh on her jacket.

“No by all means, get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, Watson.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” Joan rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly and finally sets her stuff down.

Once she’s changed and comfortable in her bed, she opens the email on her laptop and hits the compose button.

Moriarty,

Sorry to cut our meeting short today. This case may keep me busy for some time.  
If I can, lunch next week?

Joan

She closes the laptop with a yawn and pulls the covers up to her chin. Her thoughts drift to blonde hair and eyes of crystal blue. The seemingly innocent brushing of arms that she sees through. The night at the club. She can still feel the heavy bass in her heart.

Joan thinks of the museum, the rain, and the dreams. Her mind has twisted Moriarty into all sorts of predators that chase her as she sleeps. It’s reached a point that she almost feels that she’s missing something when a pleasant dream comes along. It’s probably not the best thing to feel accustomed to.

Just as she’s about to wander into another night of fantasies, her door swings open. She about jumps out of her skin, startled even further by the expression on her partner’s face.

“Sherlock, what the hell?”

“You know, Watson. I thought I could get some sleep and think about it more tomorrow but I can’t. There’s one thing that I just can’t get around and there’s no way I can rest my head with this bouncing off my skull.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again, and clenches his jaw. “I’m talking, Watson, about the strings.” His voice rises in volume with each word. “Where they come from, what they connect to, how I’ve taken notice of them. I’m talking about the bigger picture, the giant conspiracy. I’m talking about you!”

She shakes her head in confusion. “Me? What do I have to do with your strings?”

He points an angry finger at her and it becomes evident just how mad he actually is. “It’s you,” he croaks, “because it’s Moriarty.”

Joan’s heart sinks.

“How long have you been seeing her?”


End file.
